


Learning the Steps

by Kisnau



Series: Again [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, FrostIron - Freeform, IronFrost - Freeform, Loki can't get a break, Loki's Kids, M/M, MCU canon divergence but you'll see why, Slow Build, Thundershield - Freeform, Tony is too obvious for his own good, Vendettas, children being mistreated, magical craziness, my (TM) convoluted plot, ragedump!Loki, sick obsessions, unholy mix of magic and machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:17:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5247992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisnau/pseuds/Kisnau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This life has given Loki great gifts; he is King Thor’s chief advisor, has three strong children and is honored and accepted in Asgard – because only Frigga knows of his magical abilities. But the banished sorceress Innus murdered his wife, and after over a hundred years of Loki searching for vengeance, she reappears. Innus is heading a Chitauri invasion on a Midgardian city, and Asgard rushes to its aid. During the battle, Loki meets a man with a heart of iron who fights as one of Midgard’s own Avenging Warriors. Later, after Innus has been captured, an admirer makes himself known, turning Loki’s hard-earned life into nothing but memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Learning the Steps  
> Author: Kisnau (kisnau.tumblr.com and snarkyauthor.tumblr.com)  
> Artist: AncientWinters (ancientwinters.tumblr.com)  
> Pairings: Slow Build FrostIron, hinted-at-but-practically-invisible ThunderShield  
> Rating: Mature  
> Warnings: Graphic violence (a few scenes of it, so prepare yourselves!), foul language, character death, filled-in backstories for characters with minor changes, Loki was married and has children, MCU canon divergence, time skips.  
> Final Word Count: 32Kish  
> Started Date: Saturday, August 1, 2015  
> Finished Date: Thursday, November 19, 2015  
> Posted Date: Friday, November 20, 2015  
> A/N: AU due to minor changes. Loki never had the I’m-a-Frost-Giant teenage crisis or tried to commit genocide against Jotunheim. He also hid his magical abilities (from all but Frigga) while growing up in Asgard, and so was accepted instead of ostracized. Thus, after Thor’s uninterrupted coronation in 1914, he has served as King Thor’s chief advisor. Loki also married Sigyn in 1614, gaining three children by her; Vali(b.1664), Nari(b.1714) and Hela(b.1814). A banished Asgardian, an anarchist sorceress named Innus, leads the Chitauri invasion of New York in 2014. She is working with the Frost Giant sorcerer Esmid, who is obsessed with Loki, to engineer some nefarious plot.  
> 

* * *

 

            Tony is dead before him.

            All his machinations, all his attempts to preserve this one, fatal flicker of a mortal life, have come to naught. Over and over, Loki kept cheating with spells for longevity, kept telling himself he needed ‘just a little more time – just a _little_ more’.

            But it was never enough, and now that time had run out.

            Tony lay in a grisly lake of his own blood, with his heart ripped out and crushed, the arc reactor held aloft in a blue hand on the screen and a manic grin splitting the murdering Frost Giant’s lips.

            The connection fuzzed with static as Esmid laughed.

            “You see now, son of Odin, how futile attachment really is. All things end, and you must give up the hope of anyone lasting long against your insatiable appetite for chaos. We are one in the same. Your very _being_ is an affront to order and rational thought – everything for which this mortal stood. Are you so blind? Come, Loki…”

            Loki wanted to tear Esmid apart with his bare hands, but he was frozen in place, staring at the corpse that had once housed the most brilliant star in the galaxy.

            Tony’s face was cast in unnatural shadows without the glow of the arc reactor nestled below his sternum. How many times had Loki offered him a bite of a Golden Apple? Knowing of the Earth invasion months beforehand, _how_ Loki had tried to manipulate Tony into staying on Asgard, where the defenses were better-prepared against that kind of onslaught.

And when all that failed, Loki had _asked._

_No-can-do, Loki-baby. Earth’s my home and I’m not gonna abandon her in her time of need!_

And here was the result: Tony, lying bloodless, heartless (for this creature had crushed it under his boot, shrapnel and all) and reactor-less; body devoid of the energy that had kept it going, and tinkering, and _living_.

            Brought back to the moment by Esmid’s laughter, Loki knew his face was a dark mask of rage.

            He could only watch as Esmid clicked the arc reactor into some apparatus; huge, blue fingers moving expertly. Esmid was a machinist, too – like Tony. Like Tony _had been._ Loki felt rage well up again but bit his tongue against the bitterness of it, forcing a liar’s smile with teeth as sharp as any of his daggers.

            “What do you want, Esmid? For me to eviscerate you? Because you are certainly headed in that _direction_.” Esmid had the gall to laugh at him, hellish red eyes overbright with glee when he glanced back.

            “I want you to _learn_ , son of Odin. There is no place for you but at my side.” Loki gave him the greatest look of scorn it had ever been his fortune to deliver.

            “ _You_ – ”

            “Not that I expect you to understand.” Esmid went on conversationally, eyes widening as he grew enraptured with Loki’s obvious anger. Loki didn’t particularly care about Esmid’s explanation _or_ his sickening infatuation – his fingers itched to close around the Frost Giant’s throat.

            “What is there to understand?” Loki offered instead, tone a dangerous wire between complete madness and sweet vengeance, his mouth at a razor-sharp tilt.

            “You murder my lover in front of me, then declare your affections. Your motivations are as transparent as a moron’s.” Esmid just smiled at him.

            “You _will_ understand, Loki.” One blue finger pressed a button on the device and it began to whirr as the arc reactor started to spin in its new casing.

            “I need only understand you are mad.” Loki could see the tendrils of power reaching outward from around the stolen reactor, to power the device in which it was implanted. He watched as more lights lit up in the machine; Esmid’s picture had shifted so Tony’s corpse on the floor was no longer visible. Something started to hum in a high octave.

            “You should be more careful with your blood, Son of Odin.” Esmid intoned, a tad ominously, and abruptly Loki became aware of a strange, jarring sensation in his bones that distracted him from yet another pulse of rage. He looked down at his hand. It had started to blur, as though someone had smeared a painted version of his hand while it was still wet. Esmid’s laughter made him look up again, but oddly Loki felt as though his entire being were… well, being _smeared_ away, for lack of a better term.

            “What are you doing?!” He hissed, shaking his hand and trying to call his magic – to no avail. Esmid’s manic grin climbed higher on one side of his mouth.

            “Showing you the truth, Loki. The mortal is doomed, and I have woven this science-magic with your blood. You and only you will remember. It will be another life, another chance for you to see how hopeless your attempts at honor are.” Esmid’s eyes hooded, here.

            “Your blood has shown me what you cannot. We are alike, Loki. Learn how, and seek me out instead of the mortal. Together we will destroy the universe; I know that chaos is what truly calls you, in your core of cores. I give you the chance to find out why before allying yourself with me, as you must. Live well, son of Odin – I will always exist, and I will _always_ find you.”

            Loki feels himself shoved out of existence, then, and stumbles abruptly as he falls to his knees. His head is aching – he puts the back of his hand to his mouth, grimacing, feeling pale and shaken; no, as though he is about to collapse. Nonetheless, he tries to sit without swaying in place, and watches around him as scenes whip crazily. They hadn’t been there, before.

            There – he and Thor. A scene with two dwarves and sewn thread over his lips. They tingle and Loki rubs them absently, mind locking in old wounds; wounds he had never had, but for this scene. Images of Frigga healing them. Is this a dream?

            The scene changes. There is a crowd around a fallen Asgardian, and Loki sees himself looking stricken and pale. He hears a name – Baldur? – but the scene whips away just as fast as it came, lost in the tempest building around him.

            More scenes. There is no Sigyn, Loki notices, no Vali or Nari but Hela is there. She is different – not the cherubic babe with ancient eyes Loki knows her as, not golden-haired and full of a youthful glow to rival Freya’s, but dark-skinned and dark-haired with half of her face in shadow. Instead of Sigyn, there is a Frost Giantess, and two others – monsters, a wolf and a snake. Loki recoils upon knowing these are his children; he is not certain where the knowledge comes from, but Loki knows it is absolute.

_No matter who my mother is, you are always my father._

            Hela’s words ring back to him, unhurried and unafraid, her blue eyes bearing the brutal honesty and inevitability of death.

            Did she know this would happen?

            Loki is distracted from this thought by more scenes – the exiling of the children, and Hela being instated as ruler of Helheim to give Lady Death more freedom.

            The tempest lessens eventually, after what feels like an entire life has passed before him. It dissipates, revealing to Loki his surroundings.

            It is his room - in Asgard.

            Loki stumbles to his bed and falls upon it, clutching his head.

            There are two sets of lives in his mind, vying for control.

            In one, Tony dies horribly at a Frost Giant’s hands.

            In another… no, Loki has not yet met Tony, in this second life. At least as far as the memories tell.

            Did the Frost Giant send him backwards in time? Or is this simply a universe where Tony Stark does not exist? Loki's stomach lurches painfully at the prospect – an emotional reaction. Logically, if Tony does not exist, he cannot be killed by the Frost Giant. There is no reason to worry for Tony’s safety if Tony himself does not exist.

            Loki strains to remember the Frost Giant’s name – it might be important – but that detail has been lost amidst the other countless details weighing down his mind. This must be organized, or he will go mad. With effort, Loki separates out the scenes and shuts off the ones from his old life.

            He continues examining the new memories.

* * *

            Loki tries to hint to Thor, to Mother, that things are different, but Thor laughs him off and Frigga huffs at him for being ‘mischievous’. The memories of Hela are recent – Loki knows she exists, and although her body might be young her mind is eternal. He heads to Helheim and knocks on the great gate, which is answered by a silent, stone-faced Nanna. Loki nods his head graciously to her before following after.

            Their footsteps echo in the silence of Helheim, Hela’s Keep. The intrusion of Loki’s life is obvious, for Nanna’s footsteps make no sound and there is no whisper of breath from her. Elsewhere these noises might be audible, if Hela wished it so and wanted to make others more comfortable around her – without the oppressive silence characteristic of her realm – but Loki cannot imagine it would ever be often. It is simply not in Hela’s character to cover up the truth; that is why she titled herself Sahnnet.

            But enough of his daughter – for there she stands, at the end of the hall. A blink and Loki is in his own wing of the palace in Asgard, coming home from another adventure with Thor. Hela’s older brothers rush forward to greet him, showing off injuries from scuffles and Loki looks up. Beside Sigyn is Hela; small and young in Sigyn’s arms, but never fussing or crying or laughing, her stare steady and ancient. There are no visible words exchanged between them, only a look that makes Loki feel as though he is an ant on the end of a very long telescope.

            He feels dwarfed by his daughter, which is absurd because when she smiles it is the brightening of the day, with her rosy cheeks and bouncing, golden curls. She is a child; a princess, the future ruler of Helheim, the realm gifted to her by Odin when she should come of age.

            It was an empty gesture. Hela has always belonged in her Keep, in Nilfheim, but Loki could never give up his daughter to that barren place before her time. She would have memories of love and light and happiness and not go to her responsibility as though to a grave. And Hela does smile – she has affection for him, Loki can tell, even though to most she is impassive and even perhaps slightly chilling.

            The Hela that greets him now is wrapped in a black robe, half her face hidden, the visible half of her face dark and her curls thick and black. She raises a hand towards him; offering.

            “Come, Father.” She is barely a toddler, but her eye commands more power than Loki has ever known. Loki hesitates. This is not the Hela he remembers. Still, the same unknown quality clings to her that always has; something uniquely Hela, something untainted and patient amidst Asgard’s garish celebration of battle and everlasting youth.

            “ _Am_ I your father?” Loki finds himself asking, the words drawn out of him like… Truth. Hela’s mouth curves, but there is a fondness in it.

            “Are you Loki?” Loki blinks at her, and the ghost of a smirk pulls at her expression as he answers.

            “Yes.” Hela nods, now solemn, and begins to stride forward. Impossibly, she is right in front of him. In three steps, she crossed the entire distance of the room to look up at him, and extend her pudgy, baby hand.

            “You are my father.” Her fingers brush his and a memory of his old life is brought to the forefront; he with his golden-haired Hela perched in his lap as they watch Sigyn, Vali and Nari spar with Frigga. Loki blinks and the light of the memory is greeted by the shadows of Helheim. Hela’s dark eye in her dark face beneath her black curls watches him. Loki smiles, and takes her outstretched hand.

            “Yes. You are always the same, aren’t you? You remember everything?” There is a twinkle in Hela’s eye that Loki is fairly sure Frigga would attribute to _him._

            “I exist outside of time and beyond space. Changes in form do not change _me_.” Hela half-turns, tugging on his hand. “Come, Father. There is much to be done.”

            Loki lets his daughter lead him down her hall. Here, at least, he will always find an ally. It is… comforting, to know not all has been lost.

            He still does not know what yet to make of her brothers.


	2. Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This life has given Loki great gifts; he is King Thor’s chief advisor, has three strong children and is honored and accepted in Asgard – because only Frigga knows of his magical abilities. But the banished sorceress Innus murdered his wife, and after over a hundred years of Loki searching for vengeance, she reappears. Innus is heading a Chitauri invasion on a Midgardian city, and Asgard rushes to its aid. During the battle, Loki meets a man with a heart of iron who fights as one of Midgard’s own Avenging Warriors. Later, after Innus has been captured, an admirer makes himself known, turning Loki’s hard-earned life into nothing but memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline notes for Loki’s family in LTS:  
> Loki/Sigyn (both age 13 by Asgardian standards): Married 1614  
> Loki/Sigyn (both age 14): Vali born 1664  
> Loki/Sigyn (both age 15): Nari born 1714 (Vali age 1)  
> Loki/Sigyn (both age 17): Hela born 1814 (V=3, Nari age 2)  
> Loki/Sigyn (both age 18): Sigyn killed 1864 (V=4, N=3, Hela age 1)  
> Loki (age 19) & Thor (age 20): Thor king 1914 (V=5, N=4, H=2)  
> Loki (age 21) & Thor (age 22): Invasion of NYC 2014 (V=7, N=6, H=4)
> 
> A/N (12:20 AM PST on day of post): Holy shit guys I just spent two hours formatting this monster. I finished writing it earlier this afternoon, but had some chores and stuff to do... And discovered at 10:30 PM as I prepped to post that A03 was keeping NONE of my italics for this chapter, as well as killing all my indents and spaces between paragraphs, so - PLEASE APPRECIATE THEM. Hahahahaha otherwise this would just be a huge block of text. Oh my god I am so tired. x_x BUT ENJOY~!

 

* * *

          King Thor announces a contingent will travel to Midgard, to aid its warriors against Innus' assault. They face an army of Chitauri mercenaries – creatures bred in the bowels of space and the darkest parts of whirlwind stars. It is Thor, the Warriors Three, Sif and Loki who land first, and survey the damage.

  
           There are many warriors to aid. Thor notes a brightly-clad one with a star on his chest taking a beating and swings Mjolnir in an overthrow to fly to his assistance. Sif and the Warriors Three simultaneously drop in on the fighting woman and archer, destroying the pack of Chitauri that had begun surrounding them. And Loki? Loki sees no one in trouble and so jumps right into the fray beside the beastly human currently in the form of a green ogre.

  
          There is a red and gold flash in the corner of his vision which begs attention, but he ignores it in favor of avoiding being eviscerated by a particularly ambitious Chitauri who clearly took no heed of his horned helmet and Asgardian dress. There is a shouting voice above them, but tinny as though from inside a pot, and every now and then Loki catches glimpses from his periphery of what looks like small, exploding stars. Once, he looks up and happens to see the suit of armor masquerading as a man, and is confused; has Midgardian technology advanced enough that they are reproducing life amidst dead iron and stone, however gaudily painted?

  
          The battle takes precedence, however, and the annoying voice of the miniature Destroyer is soon just another noise in the din. Loki doesn’t get a particularly good look at it, and doesn’t try. There are more important matters to attend – such as the voluptuous space dragons of the Chitauri army, and the closing of the portal overhead, both of which are only adding to their woes (and the Midgardian casualties).

  
          Loki slices his way through his share of murder and blue blood, until a female, mocking voice echoes conversationally around him.

  
          “Prince Loki, is it not?” Loki spins just in time to avoid Innus’ long spear, his eyes narrowing at her as he takes up a defensive stance. She smiles at him, pale purple hair a frizzy mess atop her head even as her hands curl with violet magic. He knows her, and watches her measuredly.

           “It is.” Innus laughs at Loki’s answer, sneering at him.

           “Aside King Thor, is it not? How far has Asgard fallen under the bidding of the spoiled brother?” Loki favors her with a tilt of his head and a cool smile as he dismissively flicks a dagger at her. Naturally, she avoids it with a quick flick of her hand, a streak of violet magic deflecting it, her sneer widening to show teeth.  
  
           “It is treason to speak ill of the royal family, no less the king himself.” Loki chides mildly. Innus scoffs at him. He smiles sweetly at her. “But you are aware that is not the reason you were banished.” Her eyes narrow and Loki savors striking a nerve in her.  
  
           “And the Lady Sigyn?” She mocks, and all amusement vanishes from Loki’s bearing as he goes completely still. Innus notices and her demeanor changes to something shrewd, as she twirls her spear above her head as though it were a toy baton, eyes now watching him for any sign of weakness. “How fares she in her watery grave?”  
  
           “You shall not speak of her!” In that burst of bellowing rage, Loki rushes at Innus with his knife, secretly curling his other hand’s fingers around a special dagger. He chants a spell in his mind – perfected, over years of hiding his magic from all but Frigga, who guided him in it – as Innus laughs and easily parries his obvious lunge with her spear.

* * *

  
           His dear wife Sigyn, who had seen Loki through all the ages even before their marriage, who had given him two stalwart sons and a unique daughter; she had died only over a hundred years ago. Innus had led a failed rebellion against Odin in 1864, half a century before Thor’s expected coronation in 1914. She had finally taken action against the royal family after years of propaganda.  
  
           They had waited for Thor and Loki to be gone, off on some adventure with Sif and the Warriors Three. Ambushed in the night, Sigyn had heard the quick footsteps, and sensed something amiss. She had collected her three sleepy children and ushered them into a secret passage, covering their presences with what shielding magic she had trained herself in and telling them to hurry down it as quickly as they could.  
  
           Innus and her followers had burst in, and Sigyn held them off with all the bravery expected of a mother defending her young; Sigyn had always been talented at drawing out a fight. She could battle well enough to hold her own, and knew enough textbook magic for simple spells, but innate magic had always been her talent, along with an affinity for summoning water. Innus was passable at hand-to-hand combat, but truly excelled in offensive spells. There were violet burns all over the room when the guards arrived, afterwards.  
  
           Finding Sigyn ready for her, Innus had screeched in anger at being foiled, and detonated a magical explosion, burning all but herself – yes, even her followers, who had stood respectably by as the women engaged each other. They had had enough honor not to swarm Sigyn with their overwhelming numbers; traitors though they might be, Innus’ followers were still of Asgard, after all.  
  
           The explosion revealed the curtain behind which Sigyn and Loki’s children had fled, and, incensed, Innus pursued them at great speed. Sigyn had thrown herself behind the full-length standing mirror, which reflected enough of the blast to save her life. In the aftermath of the explosion, while Innus regained her physical form from the particles of violet magic hovering in the air, Sigyn had noticed with dismay the revealed passage, and darted down it. Innus would follow, she knew, but Sigyn would at least put herself between Innus and her children, for one last defense.  
  
           Innus caught up to Sigyn soon, but not before Sigyn had communicated with the young Hela, who confirmed she and her brothers had made it out of the passage and were with the Lady Frigga. Relieved at their safety, Sigyn summoned her magic to seal off the passage both behind her and behind Innus, who Sigyn could hear approaching in a mad rage. Innus flew at her, depleted of most of her magic but not physical strength, and Sigyn opened her eyes, glowing with a golden light, and summoned a great wave into their space. It crashed against the walls, catching Innus full force and knocking her against the sealed wall a ways behind her.  
  
           But once summoned, the wave could not be controlled; just as the sea cannot be controlled. It continued to gush, filling up the passageway until there was no air left. After the initial impact against the wall, Innus had taken a breath and used the last dregs of her available magic to form a bubble of air around her head, but Sigyn was not so fortunate. By the time morning came, Sigyn had drowned in the passage and Innus was apprehended and banished from Asgard.  
  
           From then on, treasonous talk of the royal family was utterly forbidden.  
  
           Loki’s family had been the first target; it was revealed at the trial that Innus had planned to steal artifacts from the Vault, afterwards, but she had determined killing the three babes in their sleep along with their mother would have been the easier, more politically relevant task. Loki took some small comfort in that Sigyn had proven Innus dead wrong in such an assumption of ease, even as he held Hela in his arms during the trial, Vali and Nari seated on either side of him.  
  
           Innus had sworn that, one day, Asgard would be ruled by the people, not a king. Sigyn had been the one to pay the price for Innus’ radical politics. Loki would sooner meet her in battle and have his vengeance than allow Innus to live quietly in another realm, but Innus had disappeared after she left Asgard.  
  
           Now she had resurfaced, and Loki would take great relish in killing her with his own hands.

* * *

  
           As he engages Innus, Loki continues to mentally chant the proper words, all the while keeping his fingers on the dagger to imbue it with the spell he is calling.  
  
           No one knows he does magic; no one _must_ know. That is how he has avoided ridicule all these years and that is how it shall remain. He parries one of Innus’ blows and surreptitiously slides the dagger into her thigh. She grunts and swings at him, but Loki jumps back nimbly, watching her through hooded eyes as the poisonous enchantment seeps into her magical aura. The purple aura around her twists and crackles as though it were an animal in physical pain. Loki begins to smile in satisfaction as he sees Innus’ panic when she tries to summon her explosive fire. She looks up at him, aghast.  
  
           “You are – ” Loki’s sweet sense of victory is crushed when the miniature, red-and-gold Destroyer swoops in and shoots stars from its palms at her, thrusting Innus backward into a metal tree that grows up from the ground. She dents it with a loud clang and slides bonelessly to the ground; perhaps a blow to the head knocked her out? Loki stares at the not-man as it turns to him. There is a beat, and then Loki hears a huff that he swears sounds offended.  
  
           “Uh, hello? Just saved your ass from the crazy witch with the purple hair?” Loki raises an eyebrow, and begins to stride slowly towards Innus’ crumpled body.  
  
           “Your assistance was unneeded.” Loki advises primly, only a _touch_ annoyed that his revenge has been foiled by a mechanical tool. Well, no matter, as it is easily remedied. Loki slides the tip of his knife under Innus’ neck, relishing it, but an armored hand on his elbow stops him.  
  
           “Hey, not that Earth’s not grateful for all the help, but whatcha doin’ there?” Loki squints at this metal creature from over his shoulder, before making to shrug off its arm without removing the blade from beside Innus’ throat.  
  
           “Solving a problem. She is an exiled murderer from Asgard.” The armor makes another sound from an unseen place; it’s almost a human noise, actually. Loki would normally be suitably impressed with Midgard’s technological advances, but now is not the time.  
  
           “So, what, you guys are the execution squad?” Loki snorts, and turns back to Innus. She won’t be unconscious for much longer; it is time to end this; time to gain revenge for Sigyn’s death.  
  
           “Hardly. I am merely exacting the price of her treason.” That armored hand now lands on his shoulder, restraining him from behind as though in warning. Loki remembers how it shoots stars from its palms.  
  
           “She could tell us something, though. About _why_ – why the invasion, why all the aliens, why NYC? If you kill her, that’s all gone.”  
  
           Truthfully, Loki doesn’t care about Innus’ reasoning; he doesn’t care about _why_ , or who is _really_ behind this, or anything else this mortal is suggesting. He just wants Innus’ blood on his hands; wants satisfaction, wants to avenge Sigyn’s death. Loki has kept his feelers out in the Nine Realms since Innus’ banishment, and never heard any traces of her. Then, years later, she resurfaces as the leader of a Chitauri invasion on a Midgardian city. There is more in play, in this, than his own petty revenge.  
  
           Still, Loki never claimed he wasn’t petty.  
  
           “I do not care. She deserves to die.” He states firmly, and raises the knife enough to neatly slice her head off. He hears something power up behind him, and turns slightly to see that the armor’s palms are now turned up towards him, and glowing.  
  
           “Even war criminals get a trial on Earth.” The mechanical man sounds firm, and Loki narrows his eyes, straightens his back; unafraid of those shooting stars this machine wields with such blinding accuracy.  
  
           “She _had_ a trial. This is business of Asgard. Midgard has no say in it.” A bark of a laugh emits from the mechanical man.  
  
           “Guess by Midgard you mean Earth? Well, sorry, buddy, but considering she brought her army _here_ and not to _Asgard_ , I’d say we get a pretty _big_ say in it.” Loki scowls at being unable to deny the machine’s logic. So, he takes another route.  
  
           “She has committed a crime on Asgard that is far more heinous than unleashing an army upon this city.” The mechanical man points at him with the index finger of one hand, the other still raised and glowing.  
  
           “Whoaaa, there, do you have any idea how many civilians got caught in the crossfire here?” The mechanical man shoots back, gesturing to the city around them with that same non-glowing hand and Loki definitely detects annoyance in its tone. He tilts his head, smirking slowly.  
  
           “One god is worth the lives of a thousand mortals, of course.” It’s delivered cuttingly, and Loki relishes winning their little word game.  
  
           For a good, gloating moment there’s silence, and then Loki feels the impact of those shooting stars firsthand. He’s sent flying into the glass side of a building, which shatters around him and stabs into him as he lands, hard. Slightly dazed from unexpected pain, the crunching of glass underfoot makes Loki blink upwards through the blood from a cut on his head. The machine is still pointing a finger at him; this time, _down_ at him.  
  
           “Now you sit there and think about your attitude, mister; like it or not, you don’t call the shots around here. We’ll get this all figured out afterwards, but I’m not gonna let you just kill that crazy chick before we figure out what this is all about.” Loki glares up at the faceplate of the miniature Destroyer in a look he hopes is scathing. Considering how hard it is to focus, perhaps he hit his head, too, when he smashed through that wall.  
  
           “You are a fool, and Innus will make good use of that.”  
  
           It is likely he _did_ hit his head, Loki realizes, because after that he blacks out.

* * *

  
           The throbbing in Loki’s skull is definitely _not_ being abated by Thor’s loud, booming voice. It feels as though the insides of his eyelids are vibrating. He lets a small noise of pain slip, and Thor goes blessedly quiet, before then he is shaking Loki by the shoulders as though he were a mere rag doll. Loki’s eyes fly open in an instantaneous glare of utter death, but Thor just grins at him.  
  
           “Salutations upon your return, Brother! I heard the Man of Iron had a disagreement with you concerning Innus’ fate.” Thor is smirking, now, the bastard, but Loki just rolls his eyes at the too-predictable title.  
  
           “‘Man of Iron’, indeed.” Loki remarks, dryly. “Why not ‘Man of Steel’ or ‘Man of Silver’?”  
  
           “Because silver’s not my color and Superman’s claimed that other one since the forties. ‘Man of Gold’ does have a nice ring to it, though.” There is a vaguely familiar voice and Loki closes his eyes for a moment to fight back the reminder of the mechanical being who foiled his plans for revenge. Loki then turns to grace its announced presence with the sweetest of smiles.  
  
           “Which are you, then? More man than iron, or more iron than man?” The jab is out of Loki’s mouth supple and quick like a snake; just as he sets eyes on a short, utterly unremarkable mortal with a beard like Fandral's, who smiles toothily at him.  
  
           “Guess that depends which parts you say define a man.” Loki raises an eyebrow.  
  
           “The heart and the tool of conquest.” He replies smoothly, giving the safe, Asgardian answer.  
  
           (The secret part of him that’s hidden along with magic and an affinity for chaos clamors with ‘the mind’, but Loki does not voice this.)  
  
           Strangely enough, the mortal blinks at him, then starts to smirk a little and Loki wonders if he heard that little secret cry from within him. He narrows his eyes and stands up straighter, meeting the challenge and oddly, the mortal’s eyes crinkle in what must be amusement.  
  
           “See, that’s some _very_ interesting criteria to define a man. That ‘tool of conquest’ – “ The mortal does something strange with two of his fingers of each hand as he quotes Loki, scratching them against the air and Loki is beginning to think he is insane. Loki raises his other eyebrow, the perfect picture of complete disdain. The mortal chuckles, but continues after giving the room his pregnant pause; it’s as though he relishes being the center of attention and wants to draw it out as long as possible. “ – is all me, baby. But my heart? That’s up for debate.”  
  
           “What do you – “ Loki’s question falls short in front of a meaningful look, and he frowns. The mortal graces him with a small smile.  
  
           “But that’s not all that defines a man, isn’t it? What about the mind? I pride myself on that, you see, no matter how many conquests my _tool_ has seen.” One of the mortal’s eyebrows arches in obvious innuendo at that last comment, and Loki rolls his eyes at him. What a lack of subtlety.  
  
           “What _of_ the mind? It is a place of trickery and illusions.” The mortal grins wide at him, sensing the game.  
  
           “Smoke and mirrors, I’ll give you that. But useful things, too. See, here – my heart?” The mortal pulls aside a scarf-like scrap of thick cloth tucked into his jacket, and as he does it Loki notices a glow in the center of his chest, through the shirt beneath it. It resembles the light of a dying star. Loki’s brow furrows, and he looks back up at the mortal’s face.  
  
           “What of it?” The mortal smiles at him.  
  
           “Bum ticker is what I got. Almost died, somebody fixed me up but I still needed a power source to keep me from dying. According to your definition, I’m half man, half iron. As a superhero name, Iron Man seems to pass all the appropriate tests, doesn’t it? Great names tend to do that; be awesome on multiple levels.” Loki almost snorts, at the ridiculousness of a word he’s certain the mortal just made up (as well as all the babbling – does this ant never _cease_ talking?).  
  
           “Super hero?” The mortal grins at him, again.  
  
           “Welcome to Earth, Shakespeare.”  
  
           “Who is this Shakespeare?” Loki almost jumps out of his skin at Thor’s voice; his brother had been unnaturally quiet, and in light of that conversation with the mortal Loki had forgotten Thor was even there.  
  
           (How unlike him, to lose sense of his environment like that.)

* * *

  
           The mortal’s name is Tony Stark, and Loki quickly learns that the mechanical man he had encountered was merely a battle suit built up around his fragile, human body. Loki imagines stripping away the layers of metal like the silk of a cocoon and entertains a brief – if satisfying – thought of crushing Stark like an over-ripe orange out of its peel.  
  
           Again, Loki never said he wasn’t above petty revenge.  
  
           But it must be saved for another time; Thor and the Captain of the team of fighters they encountered have brokered an alliance, and Loki is fairly sure Thor is going to elbow him out of Innus’ interrogation.  
  
           “You are too invested, Brother.” Thor had said, clapping a hand on Loki’s shoulder in a show of camaraderie. Though Loki had tried to brush it off, he did notice genuine concern in Thor’s eyes, so Loki threw him a reminder.  
  
           “She attempted to destroy my children, and murdered my wife. I am due recompense for my loss. Asgardian law demands blood paid for blood let.” Thor’s brow had furrowed at that response, and Loki very carefully kept his face neutrally matter-of-fact. Thor sighed, and clasped Loki’s other shoulder with his other hand.  
  
           “You will have your revenge, Loki; I give you my word. But that day is not today. Innus might be able to provide us with information about the one who supplied her with an army of Chitauri.” Loki smirks, then; slow, the beginnings of a Cheshire smile.  
  
           “Leave me alone in a room with her, Thor, and you will _have_ your information.” Thor huffs at him, but still squeezes Loki’s shoulders as he steps away.  
  
           “I will consider it, if all other avenues become impassable to us. The mortals do not like the idea of Asgardian justice ruling their land, and if we wish to keep our alliance with them we should show them due respect while visiting their world.” Loki rolls his eyes, at that.  
  
           “They are _mortals_. The alliance you have struck with them will be over in fifty years, ending with their deaths.” Thor just smiles tiredly at him.  
  
           “Perhaps, Brother. Still, Asgard shall not be known act dishonorably in an agreement. Not while I am king.” Loki pauses, at that, and steps back slightly to appraise Thor.  
  
           “Such talk of responsibility.” Loki murmurs, watching Thor interestedly. “You have changed, Thor. Where is the prince who winked at Mother during his own coronation?” Thor actually winces, at that, and Loki finds the reaction rather fascinating.  
  
           “He has become a king, with all the duty that entails. Pray you never feel this burden, Loki; I would not wish it upon you.” For a blink of a moment, Loki realizes that his brother looks tired. Loki lets some of the sharp smartness fall from his face, lets it soften, as he reaches to clasp Thor’s forearm.  
  
           “Then I will serve my king with my counsel, so as to ease his burden.” Thor smiles wearily at him and clasps Loki’s forearm, in met gratitude.  
  
           “Your brother accepts it. Thank you, Loki. I would be a foolish king indeed if I disregarded your counsel.” Loki grants him a smirk, inclining his head in a half-tilt.  
  
           “But you are wise enough to realize it. Go, Thor. I am certain the mortals are clamoring for you.” Thor gives him a weak smile, before seeming to pull himself in before turning away. Loki knows it is the guise of Thor’s kingliness; put on before the people of Asgard, the people of Midgard, and any other citizens of the Nine Realms. Underneath it all, what Loki sees is his brother, finally growing up under the pressures of what is expected of the King of Asgard.  
  
           Loki had had his misgivings, but Odin’s judgment seemed to be correct. There had been no major incidents besides Innus’ uprising in the past few years, and Thor was less aggressive as a king than he had been as a warrior. Less proud, as well, for in the first week alone Thor had come to Loki practically begging for his aid; he had obviously come to realize that ruling was not all feasts and battle glory.  
  
           Loki had agreed to give him assistance, and after a few particularly important near-incidents (and years, for Thor to reflect and realize Loki's advice had been the prudent course of action), was given the title of Thor’s chief advisor. He cared not for all that, really, but having _some_ influence in the world of politics eased the jealousy – yes, Loki could admit it – of seeing Thor instead of himself on the throne. Between the two of them, despite their differences in opinion (or perhaps because of them), they managed the Nine Realms well.  
  
           It was enough of a balm on Loki’s ambitions that he was reasonably content; besides, he still had Vali, Nari and Hela to look after. As king, he would have less time for them, so honestly the current situation was the best possible one (sans Sigyn's death). Loki was able to raise his children with a healthy respect for death (due largely to Sigyn’s passing and Hela’s connection to Lady Death) and as they aged he treasured the time with them more and more.  
  
           Thor and Sif were not really in love, not like Loki and Sigyn had been, but they were well-matched. Sif would have made a fine Queen, but Thor was clearly not ready for such a thing; especially not now, with all his kingly duties weighing down upon him. Odin had wanted Thor to marry before Loki had married, but Thor had refused. Given his place as firstborn, Odin had allowed Thor his way and Loki had gone amicably along with being bonded to Sigyn. After Vali’s birth, Odin had grown only more lenient, and determined to wait until Thor had settled in as King of Asgard before seeing to heirs. It was a touchy subject, for Sif was not maternal at all, but perhaps it would all work out for the best.  
  
           The Norns had not implied otherwise, at least.

* * *

  
           Loki very purposefully does not attend any of the meetings with Midgard's self-titled Avenging Warriors. It’s all very well, as everyone only wishes to speak with Thor, after all. As charisma is something quite valuable in a king, Loki supposes he cannot begrudge his brother such popularity. The Avengers – as they seem to call themselves, here on Midgard – appear quite taken with Thor, especially their Captain. Loki toys with the idea of shape-shifting to really mess with the mortals’ minds, but dismisses it reluctantly in favor of behaving. One never knows when someone might take a joke the wrong way. Still, the possibility remains tempting…  
  
           “I know that look. Plotting something?” An unwelcome, irritatingly arrogant voice intrudes into Loki’s personal thought bubble and he closes his eyes for a moment. It takes that moment for him to push down the rage he feels at this interruption; that a mere _human_ would dare disrupt him. He turns, armed with a polite smile.  
  
           “Tony Stark. _Ever_ a pleasure.” Those eyes are laughing at him. Loki wants to stab them out of Stark’s infuriating head. Unfortunately, that would most undoubtedly be considered an act of war. Loki satisfies himself with the mental image alone, for now.  
  
           “Yeah, you look more like you’re planning how to murder me in my sleep instead of being glad to see me, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Stark tilts his head, eyes sharp even as his tone is teasing. Loki feels his homicidal urges spike, but lets his smile grow only sweeter.  
  
           “I am certain I haven’t the faintest notion of what you speak. We are working in collaboration, yes? Allies often enjoy working together.”  
  
           “But _you_ don’t like the idea of working with _me,_ is that it? Got nothin’ to do with this interplanetary bullshit.” Loki’s face goes still; his irritation beginning to show. Stark notices this with an obvious blink, before breaking out into a laugh.  
  
           “Oh, for – you’re not _still_ mad I got the jump on you with Innus, are you? C’mon, buddy, you’re _how_ old and still holding grudges?” Stark’s mouth is curved in a condescending smile, up to one side, and Loki wants to tear Stark’s lips off with a rusty dagger. Instead, Loki straightens himself into a position suiting a Prince of Asgard, and speaks coldly to him.  
  
           “Your shooting stars are magical blasts, and thus dishonor yourself. The only honorable way to defeat an enemy is to beat them into submission with skill and strength alone. _You,_ Tony Stark, lack such finesse and would never be accepted on Asgard as a true warrior. You would be ostracized, much like Innus herself was, before her banishment.” Loki knows half of what he says would apply to himself, were he ever to reveal himself as a magic user, but Tony Stark does not know that and Loki wants badly to hurt him in revenge for that earlier slight.  
  
           Still, the way Tony Stark now considers him makes Loki uneasy; eyes assessing, calculating. After a surprisingly long pause for such a chattermouth as he, Stark finally speaks. His voice is a touch softer.  
  
           “Thanks for the poetic comparison; I don’t think I’ve ever heard my repulsors called ‘shooting stars’ before.” He laughs a little; it’s irritating, and Loki immediately communicates this by looking exceedingly unimpressed. Not the moron he plays to be, apparently, Stark notices this and quickly stifles himself, clearing his throat.  
  
           “Anyway. Uh. That may be the way on Asgard, but here there are lots of ways to fight. And it’s not magic, it’s science. The stuff that went into making my… ‘shooting stars’ – “ Again, Loki notices Stark make those strange hooked-fingers in the air, and raises his eyebrows; Stark simply continues as though he hadn’t noticed. “ – is, well – it’s research. Lots and lots of research done by a bunch of people before my time, which I just updated and reapplied to suit my needs. Initially, they were really just flight stabilizers, you know; something to stop someone with rockets in their boots from not being able to steer, see?” Loki doesn’t, not really, but he supposes he could see the _necessity_ , in such a situation. Thor certainly doesn’t steer well with Mjolnir blasting its way through; everything is large gestures, with no room for maneuverability. Something that could change directions at a moment’s notice without needing to inform the hammer to make it happen would be much more efficient, and Loki can appreciate that idea.  
  
           Of course, he gives no indication of _that_ ; just raises his nose a tad haughtily if only to look down at Stark with easy condescension. At least he’s taller than this infuriating mortal; one more petty point in Loki’s favor.  
  
           “It seems pointless. If mortals were meant to take to the air, they would have achieved it already.” Stark gives him a wide grin, for that, and points rudely in his face.  
  
           “Now, you’ve got us wrong, there; we _have_ achieved it. It’s just individual flying that’s got us down, but commercial airlines have become a huge travel business around here in the last hundred years.” With this, Loki’s curiosity is mildly peaked, but he refuses to take the bait Stark is dangling before his nose.  
  
           Norns, but he wants to bite that finger jabbing into his face off. Loki would even settle for merely bending it the wrong way enough to cause it to snap.  
  
           “How quaint.” He drawls, instead, tilting his head just-so in a manner he knows is infuriating in its own way. “You mortals have achieved in a measly century what took Asgardian sorcerers mere months.” That’s a fib; as Stark had said, it had been built on the research of others before them, and only those who had a natural affinity for magic could attempt to push the study on flight further.  
  
           “I thought magic was dishonorable?” Stark’s eyes are sharp on him again as he catches Loki in a mistaken reveal, and Loki calmly deflects him, showing no signs of being flustered.  
  
           “Sorcery is a woman’s art. For men to practice it in battle is seen as dishonorable.” Stark’s gaze isn’t letting him get away with that cover; his eyes narrow.  
  
           “But then how would you know about it? How would you know how long it took for your sorcerers to manage flight, unless _you_ – ”  
  
           Loki’s hand is on Stark’s mouth; firm, but with enough pressure for a threat. He knows his gaze is flinty, full of warning.  
  
           “If you _do_ value your wretched life, Stark, you will not insult me by finishing that sentence. Offense is a crime to be dearly paid, on Asgard.” Loki’s eyes are hooded; threatening. Stark just lets that annoying smirk climb back onto his face as he takes one hand to pull Loki’s down from his mouth, and curls his fingers into one side of Loki’s lapels – almost caressingly.  
  
           “Cat’s out of the bag, darling – I _know_ you use magic. My suit’s sensors pick up all sorts of energy, and you and Innus have a lot more in common than you and Thor and his buddies.” Loki’s jaw sets; his hand moves down and tightens over Stark’s windpipe.  
  
           “You know not of what you speak.” Stark’s hand remains light over Loki’s on his neck; his eyes challenging.  
  
           “Yeah, I do. But I’m not gonna tell anyone. You know why?” Loki’s shoulders relax minutely, but he still eyes Stark with distrust. He gives Stark a response, this time; tone steely and unamused.  
  
           “Because you value your swollen head remaining attached to your shoulders?” Stark grins at him.  
  
           “Because we’re supposed to be _allies_ and allies don’t take each other down. Am I right? That go into your screwed-up ideas of honor, over on Asgard?” Loki eyes him for a moment more, before releasing his hold and taking a step back.  
  
           “… Yes. Allies do not attack one another.” Stark’s touch lingers on his lapel, and Loki sends him a questioning glance. Stark smiles lopsidedly at him and clumsily tries to straighten it out, suddenly not looking at him.  
  
           “Uh, sorry ‘bout that. Just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t let a stray dagger find its way into my ribs, y’know? You seemed pretty pissed that I knocked you out, before…”  
  
           Well, yes; Loki’s pride _had_ taken a hit. But he sighs about it, now; like it or not, Stark has won himself a small iota of respect with that bit of manipulation and attention to detail. As such, Loki graces him with only a flat look instead of a scathing one.  
  
           “Quite.” Stark seems to expect more of a response and when it’s not forthcoming, laughs a little nervously and waves it off as he makes a hasty exit.  
  
           Mortals are strange, indeed.

* * *

  
           As evening approaches, Stark invites everyone – that is, everyone including Thor, Loki, Sif, the Warriors Three and Midgard’s own Avenging Warriors – to stay in his fortress, a veritable siege tower amidst others of its kind in this strange city.  
  
           “Why did you not open fire on the Chitauri forces, with such towers?” He inquires of Stark, who seems the least likely to avoid answering questions. Indeed, their Captain is much more guarded around Loki, but Loki _does_ tend to have that effect on certain people (who tend to be very good marks for pranks).  
  
           Stark gives him a strange look. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Loki gestures out the penthouse window, which offers a stunning panoramic view of all the siege towers.  
  
           “With so many armaments, I should have expected more of Midgard’s fighting force. Why was it only you and four other warriors defending this city?”  
  
           “OK – firstly, it’s _Earth_ , not Midgard. Secondly, you guys came to help so that means _a load_ of other ‘warriors’ besides me. Thirdly, the people who defend the city are called the police, and they were busy making themselves useful getting civilians out of the line of fire. Fourthly – “ Stark squints at him. “ – since when is a skyscraper an armament? I mean, maybe it is to you guys since you’re freakishly strong, but…” Stark trails off as Loki stares at him in befuddlement.  
  
           “Sky scraper?” It sounds like a word made up by a child. Loki spares another glance out the window, trying to imagine the towering spires of these buildings ‘scraping the sky’. As though echoing his thoughts –  
  
           “Skyscraper, skyscraper, scrape me some sky – ” A disembodied voice from overhead begins and Loki lunges forward to grab Stark and tackle him behind the couch, crouching over him protectively as he peers up at the room, hackles raised. How did someone sneak up on him like that?  
  
           Beneath him, Stark bursts into laughter and sits up. He shoves Loki off his lap to sit beside him, grinning ear-to-ear.  
  
           “Think you spooked him, J.” Stark sounds amused; Loki is too intent on still eying the ceiling suspiciously to take notice.  
  
           “My apologies, sir. I was merely reciting a children’s poem by Dennis Lee. It seemed appropriate.” Loki’s ears perk, at the term, head canting in interest.  
  
           “Poem?” Stark makes a face.  
  
           “Oh, no, _please_ don’t tell me you’re a bookworm.” Loki stares at him, incredulously.  
  
           “You are unaware of the great value of poetry? Poetry is the voice of a civilization, the height of its culture. Ceiling, I would hear your poem, written by mortal hands.” Loki practically commands, and he ignores Stark sticking his tongue out at him while ‘J’ happily agrees.  
  
           “Certainly, sir. And please, do call me Jarvis.”

           While Thor plays the ambassador – not normally his strong suit, but he and the warriors’ Captain seem to get along swimmingly – Loki is left to the tedium of Midgard. He is still the God of Chaos, secret horde of magical abilities or no, but there is very little to amuse him, confined to this tower as he is.  
  
           He had met these ‘Avengers’ in passing and dismissed them all accordingly. In their Captain, Loki saw a Thor look-alike and act-alike, if perhaps a shade nicer. In the Widow – for that is what they called her – he sensed an instinctive equal, a kindred spirit, and so naturally they stayed far away from one another. In the archer, “The Hawk,” a buffoon to rival any of Thor’s Warriors Three. In the man-beast, Loki was at turns repulsed and fascinated; it was a volcanic eruption to rival any of the mountains of Muspelheim, but contained by such a frail fence.  
  
           And _then_ , there was Stark. Loki hadn’t bothered to remember any of their names but his; indeed, it was a hard name to forget, seeing as ‘Stark Industries’ was plastered all over every bit of technology either lying around or bolted into the tower.  
  
           Stark’s technology was often… pointless, futile, the epitome of laziness; due in likelihood to the paradox of a mortal with too much time on his hands. Stark was always babbling on about something or another; never silent, always thinking. Loki and Thor had been given rooms on the penthouse floor with Stark, and sometimes Loki would hear him wander into the living room, talking to his aware machine. Out of pure curiosity, Loki would grant himself a magical view of the living room, and tilt his head at the array of floating rectangles, tinted blue, that spun around Stark with every twitch of his fingers. Before Loki’s very eyes, ideas materialized, lines became form, blueprints projected onto Stark’s arm as he adjusted something with his suit.  
  
           After the third night of this, Loki found it odd; had not Stark another area where he could so tinker, without disturbing his guests? The fourth night, an hour or so after Stark entered the living room as usual and was thus buried in a flurry of floating, translucent rectangles, Loki quietly exited his room and stood some feet behind Stark, behind the couch, his hands folded in the small of his back.  
  
           After some minutes of no acknowledgment, Loki barred the route of courtesy and simply spoke, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.  
  
           “Is it Midgardian custom to keep your guests from their sleep with _playing_ in the mid of the night?” Stark held up a finger, which only spiked Loki’s annoyance, more. His fingers twitched to unleash magic on this unsuspecting mortal who was utterly undeserving of his time _or_ attention, but this reaction was waylaid when Stark turned to grin at him, wide and unashamed.  
  
           “Was wondering when you’d come out of the closet. Sure, the first night was an accident, but when Jarvis mentioned later that you were _spying_ on me, I figured I’d move my work up here for a few nights and see what you’d do. You must be a light sleeper, because it doesn’t wake up Thor at all.”  
  
           Well, that was true enough; Thor’s snores tended to rumble even as far as Nilfheim. Still, that was not the point; Loki glared at him.  
  
           “Are you to say that you have been disturbing my sleep _since I arrived here_ simply to speak with me in the wee hours of the morn?” Loki’s voice was the driest it had ever been; Stark was still smiling, but his head had canted slightly, as though looking at Loki from a new angle would reveal something other than what he observed. His eyes were sharp and laughing.  
  
           Goddamn those smug eyes; Loki wanted to claw them out.  
  
           “Maybe.” Stark conceded, at last, a knowing smile pulling at a corner of his mouth, again. “Or maybe I just wanted to see why you’d waste your time watching a ‘lowly mortal’ like me instead of getting your beauty sleep, Cinderella.” One of Stark’s eyebrows had risen, to that point, and Loki felt himself bristle in response, his own gaze narrowing.  
  
           Stark had caught Loki watching him; there must be some sort of technology that allowed him to see what was passing, or what had already passed. To Loki, it seemed as magic, but given as it was Stark, it was likely their ‘technology’.  
  
           “You are astute.” Loki offers by way of not answering, and Stark’s other eyebrow raises as his smile slants into a smirk.  
  
           “Took you long enough, doe-eyes. By the way Thor talks, I thought you were supposed to be smart or something.” Loki bristles, again, and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, out of sheer affront.  
  
           “If you were to explain the nuances of your battle armor to _Thor_ , he would not be able to comprehend the fact that the energy does not flow from one main source, as it appears, but rather many small sources in the joints, such that even if the star in your chest were to take great damage, if you remained in the suit, the others would compensate for the loss at least long enough for you to survive. This would be in a perfect scenario, mind you, which is highly unlikely in battle. I daresay, without your teammates to offer support, in a dire situation you would be most certainly doomed.”  
  
           Stark’s eyes had widened about halfway through Loki’s tirade. Loki had noted that, of course; tone growing progressively more collected and eyes glinting in malicious glee at Stark’s obvious discomfort. Stark stared at him a moment before managing to respond.  
  
           “You could tell… all that… just from four days observing me messing around?” Loki sniffed at him in disdain, angling his head condescendingly, enjoying having the upper hand.  
  
           “By the way the gauntlet was constructed, it was obvious it had its own power source from the elbow. In order for the armor to maintain itself while sustaining battle damage, the power source would have to be localized and with multiple connections to avoid interference. Given the way I have observed your devices since my arrival on Midgard, there are at least two methods of contact; ones with cables and ones without. Having an obvious large power source in your chest is an easy target for your foes, and, as is prudent – dull as you are, even _you_ are not so thick as Thor can be – one would take measures to fortify the energy supply to the armor in the case of severe failure. The best solution for this is multiple small stars. Further, there is proof in your blueprints of this; the lines of the cabled connections converge at the elbow, which is counterintuitive if you only had the mechanism for movement housed there. Thus, the joints provide the perfect natural bulk to hide additional pockets of power. This also provides, in the unlikely case that the chestplate would be removed and the star in your chest destroyed, a way to defend yourself from further attack and give you a chance to retreat. The smaller stars would communicate with the connections located in the area that had housed the large star, and provide enough power to keep your iron heart from sputtering out like a whirlwind star.” Stark’s look of awe is tempered, by that last line; now he just looks confused.  
  
           “Whirlwind star?” Loki cannot resist the urge to roll his eyes.  
  
           “Have you not explored space such that you have not observed the end of the life cycle of a star?” Before Stark can interrupt him, Loki launches impatiently into a cursory summary suitable for mortal ears. “A pre-star cloud in its second stage of life becomes either a yellow star or a blue star. In the third stage, these stars become large and red; engulfing stars. In the fourth stage, the red star that had been yellow then creates a small galaxy, before shrinking smaller than it had been as a yellow star and turning white, reaching its fifth and final stage. The red star that had been blue implodes upon itself, becoming an exploding star in its fifth stage. In its sixth stage, an exploding star can become the smallest and densest star in existence – smaller than the yellow star – a lighting star, which illuminates the space around it. Conversely, an exploding star may also become a whirlwind star, forming the shape of an eddy in the tide and drawing all matter into its dark center.” Stark blinks at him, for a moment, and Loki fears he has lost his poor, mortal mind in his elementary explanation. Then, Stark laughs.  
  
           “Oh, you mean a _black hole_!” It is Loki’s turn to stare in disbelief as Stark continues to laugh, clearly amused.  
  
           “A ‘black hole’?” Stark grins up at him, face still full of mirth.  
  
           “It’s what we call one of those, uh… ‘whirlwind stars’. We teach the same thing to our kids, but they’ve got different names… Red giant, white dwarf, supernova, neutron star – stuff like that.” Loki just deadpans at him, nonplussed.  
  
           “How inelegant.” He sniffs, disdainfully. Stark actually rolls his eyes at him, but Loki can tell it’s good-natured.  
  
           “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hey, and what’s with calling my arc reactors ‘stars’? You did that with the repulsor beams, too.”  
  
           “I assume you mean your shooting stars.” Loki states, impatiently. “Because that is what they look like when you fire. It is the obvious name. Why must you mortals complicate things needlessly with superfluous names? The attributes of what define a star in each stage are easier remembered without the needless complication of coining new words for every new experience we encounter.” Stark is giving him a little bit of a weird smile; it’s half-amused, part sharp and part rueful.  
  
           “Guess we like to make up names so we get remembered. Things aren’t so simple when you only live for maybe a century; you want to make it count, make your mark.”  
  
           “But through _names_? Why not through actions?” Loki remarks, disdainfully. Stark chuckles a bit, at that.  
  
           “People do that, too. But we plaster our names on everything we do or make because after we’re dead, we want people to know we did something, thought something; _were_ something. Y’know?” Stark is looking at him with something close to sadness; Loki gazes at him a moment, before remarking bluntly.  
  
           “But you are nothing; you are _mortal_. I have seen a thousand yellow stars like your sun burn out and become white stars. I have seen a thousand more blue stars become either lighting or whirlwind stars. You are one small realm amidst many; who are you preserving your names for? No one in Asgard or Vanaheim or Nidavallir will ever know these names.” Stark just smiles at him, absently.  
  
           “Guess we’re just doing it for ourselves, then. Mice remembering mice, right?” Stark shrugs and turns to go, the mood abruptly somber. Loki watches him leave.  
  
           Loki wonders, belatedly, if he had said something hurtful – then dismisses it. Stark will be dead before the century is out, and there is no use thinking of mortals as though they will ever have any lasting influence in a universe full of Gods, Dwarves, Elves, Frost Giants and Fire Demons.

           It is over the course of those four days that Innus is slowly interrogated by each of the Avenging Warriors and Warriors Three in turn. On the fifth day (the day after he and Stark's little conversation about the life cycle of stars), they finally allow Loki in the same room with her. Thor warns him against exacting his revenge, and Loki waves him off. It would be a dishonorable death, is what he tells Thor, but secretly Loki knows if he got the chance, he would end her without a second thought, honor or no. But it is thoughts like those that he has learned to carefully avoid, as they are frowned upon in Asgard. If nothing else, it is to protect his children from dishonor through his own actions.  
  
           Sometimes, Loki wonders if he would be better off in a savage culture; with his magic and natural affinity for leadership, he’d likely best even the most advanced of them. Still, they would not be Asgard, and willing leadership through cunning and force would not be as sweet as sitting righteously atop Odin’s former throne.  
  
           Loki descends to the basement level in which they are holding Innus. Fortunately, Stark is not his guide; it is only a lower-level soldier and Loki toys with the idea of being insulted. He is not King of Asgard, no, but his position still demands respect; even were he not Thor’s chief advisor, a prince of Asgard is still a prince.  
  
           He is mildly placated when he spots Thor and their Director a good ways down the hall. This mortal is not the Avenging Warriors’ Captain, but someone who foresees their support on the ground with less-skilled and thus, more dispensable, soldiers. His eyepatch makes Loki think of Odin, and he smiles at the thought; until he uses his magic to enhance his hearing just enough to hear what they are saying.  
  
           “Loki has a temper, and Innus killed his wife in battle. It was a good death, but Loki claims revenge for the loss of his companion and mother of his children. Were we in Asgard, he would be within his rights to exact it forthwith, however with things as they are…”  
  
           “Yes. We’d like to know why the hell she came _here_.” Loki hears Thor sigh; he sounds weary.  
  
           “As would we all, Director.”  
  
           “You’re afraid Loki will kill her?” Loki sees Thor hesitate to answer.  
  
           “… No. My brother is wise. He is my chief advisor not because of relation, but skill. He knows how to wield his rage; if Loki cannot gain your information, none can.” Loki hears the Director snort.  
  
           “He’s never seen the Widow in action. But I’ll grant you this; I’m trusting your judgment, Thor. We don’t want a dead body on the other end of this until we know what we need to know. After we get that info, I’ll hand Loki over to her personally for extermination.” Loki spots a wan smile on Thor’s face as he clasps the Director’s offered forearm.  
  
           “Many thanks, Director.” They turn to greet them and Loki offers a pleasant smile as he strides forward, ahead of his escort, who remains standing a few steps behind him. He extends his hand; one Midgardian custom he has picked up on, and let it never be known that Loki was rude to someone without reason.  
  
           (Even despite the Director doubting his self-control.)  
  
           “The Director, I presume? An honor.” That single eye watches him steadily, but not quite suspiciously, and the Director moves to shake his hand, anyway.  
  
           “Likewise, Prince Loki.” Loki grants him a slightly warmer smile, for the respect.  
  
           “Please; Loki. We are not on Asgard, and we are allies, yes?” The Director nods, and retracts his hand.  
  
           “Sounds good to me.” Thor claps them both on their shoulders, beaming.  
  
           “Indeed; the strongest of allies. Loki, Innus awaits you inside. The Director has granted you the proper clearances to gain entrance.” Of course, Loki could have entered days ago if he had wished to spark an intergalactic incident over Innus’ untimely death; but out of respect for Thor’s ‘alliance’, he patiently waited.  
  
           And here is his reward; he smiles charmingly at the Director.  
  
           “Your efforts are much appreciated.” The Director huffs softly under his breath, but not enough to be rude; Loki supposes he is merely the sort of man who does not appreciate flowery words. Loki’s smile quirks a bit wry, at that; that’s something the Director and Stark have in common.  
  
           “Don’t worry about it.” The Director gestures to the door ahead of them. “Go on. We’ll wait here. My people are watching and will let you through the doors as you get to them.” Loki nods, somehow knowing in the back of his mind that someone will be on standby to ‘control’ him, should the interview not go as planned. As he turns to the doors, which part before him from the middle, Loki fights a smug smile; he remembers Stark’s method of viewing all that has passed or is passing, and schools his expression to accordingly neutral.  
  
           No one will stand between him and his revenge; he will get them their precious information, and then enjoy slowly drawing out her death. Belying his thoughts, Loki keeps a pleasant, harmless smile as he traverses through the doors which part before his feet. Soon enough he is greeted by the sight of the Captain standing stoutly before what must be the final door; Loki had been correct in thinking there would be someone to 'control' him if his rage should get out of hand.  
  
           Loki's smile turns cold; he doesn't offer his hand to the Captain.  
  
           Likewise, the Captain eyes him, before pointing at him with one gloved hand. Loki raises an eyebrow. The Captain is undeterred.  
  
           "No funny stuff. You're not gods, you don't get to decide life and death." Loki laughs easily; fake, but drawn-out with horrible amusement.  
  
           "Her fate was decided the moment she stole someone from me." Loki's gaze turns fierce, cutting through the Captain mercilessly. "Or have you never lost, O' Captain?" The mortal's face clears from aggression, smoothing out slightly as his forehead uncreases, and Loki thinks he may have hit upon a painful parallel between them. Not quite regretting his words, Loki instead straightens himself and makes to stride past the Captain; his elbow is caught, and the Captain's voice is low and rough.  
  
           "Love and revenge are not the same." Loki tilts his head to look slightly over his shoulder, and laughs in the Captain's face; this time a bit more honestly amused.  
  
           "Perhaps not for _you_ , but you are so young. Whatever hurt you have suffered was not evil enough to make you see the truth beyond your web of delusions." The Captain's jaw sets, and his grip tightens slightly on Loki's elbow; not enough to hurt, it's obviously just reflexive.  
  
           "Or maybe I'm just a better man than you are." Loki slants him a patronizing smile.  
  
           "Would the better man allow the murderer of his children's mother to walk free and unscathed?" The Captain's grip goes slack, and Loki takes that moment to easily pull himself free and step through the parting doors. He has made his point.  
  
           Innus awaits him, bound in Asgardian chains etched with runes. Loki's smile disappears as he stops a few paces from her. The doors slide smoothly shut behind him, and for a moment they merely stare at each other. Then, Innus smiles.  
  
           "Sigyn's death was planned from the start, you know. The children would have been icing on the cake, but _she_ was the reason - "  
  
           "Silence." The word is laced with Power; it silences her, and Innus stares at him, aghast at this spell of obedience falling over her, what with her magic bound by the shackles. Loki smirks grimly. "You will speak only when asked a question." Innus' eyes narrow. Loki's smirk climbs a bit higher. "Who sent you." As though fighting the response, the answer breaks through Innus' self-control with visible physical effort to hold it inside.  
  
           "My master." Loki frowns; not the answer he had wanted. Wasn't there a name?  
  
           "Who supplied you with the Chitauri fleet."  
  
           "My master."  
  
           "Who gave you that tiara." Beneath all her frizzy, purple hair, it had been hidden, but Loki knew that purple gem in the center of that tiara when he saw it. He had hoarded it away in a dimensional space pocket, mulling over the best way to bring its discovery up to Thor. Innus' expression clears in abrupt delight, and she suddenly grins toothily up at him.  
  
           "My master." Loki narrows his eyes down at her. Innus' eyes have begun to glow; that's wrong, she shouldn't be able to do any magic. "He comes." Innus shrieks, her back arching as she vaults off her chair as though pulled by some supernatural force. She slams down on her back with a crack, writhing on the floor and Loki can't help but take a few steps back, releasing his obedience spell. It has no effect; she continues to spasm wildly. Loki can only watch in horror as Innus' skin rips apart in neat, cubical chunks; it reveals not blood, but circuitry beneath, the likes of which Loki has only seen in Stark's armor.  
  
           That is where the similarity ends, however; this technology is wholly different, an abomination, a mix of body and machine, and Innus' eyes roll back towards him even as her face whirrs open; is this Innus, or was it only ever a machine designed to look and act like her? Through the gears lining the underside of her cheeks, there is no blood, which is only more chilling. A projection appears; a tall creature, no, a Frost Giant. Its face is in shadow, but Loki can hear it smile.  
  
           "Loki, of Asgard. I see you have apprehended my disciple; or, _one_ of her." The Frost Giant chuckles; it makes the hairs on the back of Loki's neck prickle. He knows with certainty that this creature is mad.  
  
           "Where is Innus." It's a demand, despite Loki's growing sense of dread. The Frost Giant tilts its head.  
  
           "Why, she is there. And here..." Something illuminates behind the Frost Giant, revealing tanks of floating Innuses, and Loki covers his mouth with the back of his hand when he sees the wires digging under her skin in too many places to count.  
  
           "Who... What _are_ you." It's hushed; horrified. There's no other reaction that fits. The Frost Giant laughs what it must think is a gentle, comforting chortle. Loki only becomes more aware of his building fear; yes, he can admit it, but it will not master him.  
  
           "I am Esmid. I am a Dancer of Time, much like your daughter." Loki breathes a quick intake of breath.  
  
           "What has she to do with this?" Esmid brings his blue face into the light, revealing pale scars etched into his face that tell of his lineage.  
  
           "She is my great nemesis, and it is my goal to destroy her."  
  
           "You cannot kill death." Esmid's eyes hood, in the projection, as he leans in towards Loki more. Loki keeps his face neutral; even only through a projection, Esmid's presence is suffocating.  
  
           "No, but your daughter is not Lady Death. She is the Queen of Nilfheim, of Asgardian blood, and her physical form can be taken and manipulated. I am only a Frost Giant, but _she_... she is carved of something else, entirely. The essence of Time lies in her blood, and I will claim it to show you your true path, Loki." Loki straightens, regaining some inch of his haughtiness, and narrows his eyes, staring Esmid down.  
  
           "You are mad. You shall not lay a hand on my daughter." Esmid smiles at him, engaged, dark and obsessed. Loki realizes that too late, realizes he has just given Esmid what he really wanted; Loki's one, true weakness.  
  
           "No, but your sons are nowhere near as fearsome as she. Best run along home, little prince; the Wolf is coming, and he is hungry for royal blood."  
  
           Loki doesn't register the call of warning from the Captain as the machine that had played Innus begins to beep crazily, doesn't react as the Captain pulls him back from the explosion and needlessly shields him with his body, doesn't do anything until two breaths afterwards, when he doesn't think and teleports straight back into Asgard. It takes a great deal of energy, and Loki stumbles as he lands, eyes wild as he looks around the nursery.  
Hela is poised at her play-vanity, one of her skeleton dolls held in her hands; she stares passively at Loki. It is not a mean look, merely a detached one.  
  
           “Hela?” For some reason, Loki is terrified of the look in her eyes. When Hela speaks, it is calm and measured, as though she were explaining to a child.  
  
           "Esmid is not a Dancer of Time, Father. He believes he controls Time, when it is Time that controls him. What must happen must happen, but I cannot be harmed." Her eyes trail off, towards the hall to her brothers' rooms.

           "You cannot save them. This is their fate; they cannot escape it." Hela's gaze pins Loki in place against the instinct to rush to her brothers; so much power in only a glance.

           "Just as you cannot escape yours. I send you back, you will not remember this. Do as you must; you can do nothing else."  
  
           Two moments after he teleported away from the explosion, Loki is back, the Captain's weight still bearing down on him as a body shield. His mind is fogged; he can only clearly remember Innus exploding after all of Esmid's mad talk. His ears are ringing, and someone else runs into the room, pushing at the Captain curled protectively over him.  
  
           "Hey, hey! Lokes, what the hell just happened? What’s with the android? Who was that guy?"  
  
           Stark.

* * *

  
           The knowledge that Innus was a tool – a _mechanical_ tool, nonetheless – puts all the mortals on edge. Certainly, it leaves Loki wondering whether Innus still exists somewhere as an entity to release his revenge _upon_ , but on the other hand these… ‘androids’ as Stark had called them, could serve as an endless, regenerating method of venting his anger. That is, if Stark hadn’t claimed the remains of the only one they _had_ , for ‘scientific purposes’.  
  
           Loki somehow knows that Esmid will send another Innus their way when the time is right – perhaps as another invasion leader, perhaps as a mere messenger. But Thor cannot be stationed on Midgard for so long, as there are matters to attend in Asgard. It is with a heavy heart that Loki agrees to be burdened with playing ambassador to the mortals – ironic, how they adore Thor so much he is nearly one of their team, and now Thor is leaving. None of the Warriors Three would be well-suited to the position, for different reasons, and Sif is not known for her finesse.  
  
           Thus, it is with a solemn nod of responsibility that Loki clasps his brother’s forearm and wishes him well, and Thor gives him a look of intense appreciation.  
  
           “You would do well to know our allies, Brother.” Thor murmurs to him quietly, their heads inclined towards one another in private conversation. “If our alliance is to end with these mortals’ death, so be it, but _until_ their deaths we shall do honor by our word. I have the utmost faith in you.” Thor clasps his shoulders and brings him in for a hug, which Loki accepts with equal force, palms pressing into Thor’s shoulderblades.  
  
           “So fleeting as this alliance is, I shall yet honor it in the name of Asgard and the king. Send Vali and Nari word of what has occurred – ensure they are well looked-after.”  
  
           “And Hela?” Loki finds himself chuckling, at the thought.  
  
           “Hela does not require looking after.” Thor nods, likely not understanding but still accepting Loki’s judgment. Thor pulls back, hands still on Loki’s shoulders, and levels a serious stare at him.  
  
           “If you would be interested in a post with more permanence, should Midgard agree with you – “  
  
           “No.” Loki states, firmly. “This is temporary only, and my sons are safer in Asgard.” Some lingering sense of doom is hanging over Loki’s head, and much as he hates not being around to protect his sons, himself, Midgard is a far less defendable realm. For hiding, perhaps well and good, but not defense; everything is too scattered, too different, with too many sudden changes of opinion. Loki offers a slanted smile to his brother, and dips his head.  
  
           “I will be home soon enough, once you find an appropriate ambassador.” Preferably, one who actually _likes_ mortals. Thor catches the subtext, and gives him a wan smile before shaking his head, and giving in to a quiet chortle.  
  
           “I shall see you in some days, Loki, my brother. Be well until then.”  
  
           “And you, my king.” Loki replies automatically, and steps back as Thor looks to the sky. Thor raises Mjolnir, Heimdall opens the Bifrost, and Thor is gone.  
  
           It is now Loki, alone, with a realm full of mortals.  
  
           “Well, that’s _one_ way to make an exit no one'll miss.” Comes a voices from the side, and Loki closes his eyes briefly; it’s Stark. There have been idiots before, but never has his patience been so tried with a singular being. Nonetheless, now that Loki is the official ambassador to Midgard – if temporarily – he must make the effort to be cordial with even those who are unbearable. And so, he turns to Stark with a pleasant smile.  
  
           Before he can so much as utter a word, Stark snorts at him, eying him with a raised eyebrow.  
  
           “Please don’t pull any of that ‘ambassador’ shit on me, OK? I already know you don’t like me; that’s fine, and in fact most people have a hard time dealing with this much genius on a regular basis.” Loki can’t help but roll his eyes.  
  
           “My, how _do_ you carry on.” Loki catches a fleeting, faint smile on Stark’s face before it’s swallowed up by arrogance again; Loki is beginning to sense most of it is an act.  
  
           “Large and in-charge, buddy. But anyway, feel free to treat me like the asshole I am, and I’ll do the same to you – no interplanetary bullshit allowed. Deal?” Loki considers Stark, for a moment, and observes his outstretched palm. Loki nods.  
  
           “Very well.” Stark looks at him expectantly, and Loki raises an eyebrow.  
  
           “You cannot be expecting me to shake your hand; is that not the _polite_ gesture, in your culture?” Loki offers, innocently enough. Stark blinks at him, then laughs and retracts his hand.  
  
           “Guess you got me, there. Wow. You’re an asshole back home, aren’t you?” Loki slides him a razor-sharp smile.  
  
           “I suppose you’ll never know. No mortal has ever set foot in Asgard, and I do not foresee that changing.” Stark smiles at him; there’s a somewhat knowing edge to it that Loki doesn’t like.  
  
           “I don’t know; your king and our captain seemed pretty chummy.” Loki frowns at him, and Stark smirks, then waves it off.

           “Nevermind. Probably just too little sleep and too much caffeine talking. Well, I’ll leave you to your star-gazing, or home-gazing, or whatever you Asgardians get up to in your free time.” And with that, Stark is gone, too. Loki turns his gaze to the light-clouded night sky over the city, and the vast expanse of darkness that lies over the ocean in the bay.  
  
           That sense of doom has not left; Loki feels as though he is falling helplessly towards the black heart of a whirlwind star. Midgard may lie on the very edge of the precipice.

  
           Later that week, a visit from Hela is an unexpected surprise that absolutely delights Loki and almost gives Stark a heart attack. She phases in – not her, herself, but a mirrored version of her – and the sensors Stark has in his room (in all the rooms, Loki supposes) go wild. Jarvis – for that is the sentient machine’s name, and Loki would find it terribly rude not to call it by name, since it had introduced itself – alerts him. Stark bursts in as Loki is seated on his bed, chatting amiably with his daughter who is kneeling at the end of it. She does not startle, merely turns her head and gives Stark that mysterious smile that does not fit her age. He stares at her, then at Loki. The first words out of Stark’s mouth are –  
  
           “So… this totally isn’t what it looks like, is it?” Loki’s eyes narrow at the insinuating tone, but Stark continues, worriedly eying Hela. “Little girl, I don’t know what he’s told you online, but – “  
  
           “Stark. My _daughter_.” Loki intones icily, gesturing with his hand towards her, and Stark stops short, blinks, opens his mouth, then closes it.  
  
           “Oh. Right. You, uh – “ Stark clears his throat. “ – you really have your uncle’s hair, there, sweetheart?” Hela smiles sweetly on him; despite her cherubic appearance, the look is still terribly unsettling and Loki is awfully proud of her for it.  
  
           “My _mother’s_ hair, Stark. My grandmother’s eyes.” Indeed, it is true, although Stark will not likely get the reference; Frigga’s all-knowing, ancient-yet-mischievous twinkle has been passed on. (The part about Sigyn’s hair is true, too, but that wound is yet too raw and unavenged to heal over cleanly.)  
  
           “Uhhh, right. My mistake.” Stark intones nervously, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them. Loki is sure to mirror his daughter’s saccharine smile, if only to unsettle Stark all the more. The silence stretches just long enough that it becomes awkward.  
  
           “Was there something you needed, or did you merely wish to grace us with the pleasure of your presence?” Loki asks very nicely; so nicely, in fact, he’s almost gritting his teeth behind his smile. His children are precious treasures and Stark’s intrusion _is_ just that. Stark grins at him, anxiety as palpable as his untamable curiosity.  
  
           “So, uh… Loki’s Daughter.” Loki cuts him off, correcting him irately.  
  
           “Hela.”  
  
           “Right. Hela. How are you – here, exactly? My scanners got some whacked-out energy readings but I can see right through you and – ”  
  
           “I _hardly_ think Asgardian sorcery is any of your business, Stark.” Loki interrupts again, cuttingly, and he swears Stark pouts at him; both of Loki’s eyebrows rise reflexively, having not expected that sort of response.  
  
           “Awww, c’mon! You know how my suit works – ”  
  
           “I gained that knowledge by my own merit, through observation and application. Do not pretend as though you have given me a great boon by explaining anything, or that I _owe_ you for your lack of understanding, wherein _I_ was able to decipher your quaint Midgardian equations without your assistance.” Loki’s tone is droll; it seems to be a common occurrence around Stark. The mortal is far too dramatic, after all; so lazy and inconsiderate, but so insistent on working so hard on things he finds interesting (and yes, at times brilliant _for his species_ , perhaps). Stark’s pout only grows into a full-on exaggerated frown.  
  
           “Hey, I’m not stupid! Your magic is just a form of science we haven’t figured out, yet – it’s not _better_.” Loki can’t help it; he smirks at Stark.  
  
           “Then _do_ enlighten me as to how my dear Hela is here?” Stark’s brows furrow and he looks none-too-pleased with that answer as he huffs, putting his hands on his hips.  
  
           “I don’t need to. I _had_ asked _her_. Or can’t your little girl speak up for herself, Loki-dokes?” Loki feels one of his eyes twitch, and starts to rise off the bed towards Stark without realizing he is, eyes burning with insult.  
  
           “ _What did you just –_ ”  
  
           “Father, all is well.” Hela’s amused tone pulls him out of the protective fatherly mode he had just assumed, enough that Loki glances over at her, pausing. Her smile is a little softer, now.  
  
           “Forgive him. His mouth moves faster than his heart.” She glances towards Stark, then, and ever-so-slightly inclines her head.  
  
           “Tony Stark. It is an honor to meet you. I regret I cannot answer your questions yet; the time for that shall come, and has already been.” Stark frowns at her, clearly nonplussed.  
  
           Hela is being cryptic on purpose; it’s one of her traits, but Loki supposes some of it has to do with existing in multiple times. Hela’s mind swims in time, gets lost in it, and she often has to be reminded of what has happened in her life. She always nods, accepts, and then gets swept away by her magic once more. It is not a magic of Loki’s talents, or of Sigyn’s, or even of Frigga’s inherited Vanaheim abilities; it is a brand Loki has never seen before, and doubts any but Lady Death Herself could rival.  
  
           “Have we met before?” Hela’s smile again gains that mysterious edge she is so fond of.  
  
           “No. But this is not the first.” With that last enigmatic comment, Hela nods respectively to both of them, before her projected self vanishes. Stark and he remain there quietly for a moment, before Stark blurts out what must be the first thing to come to mind to dispel the tension.  
  
           “Dude, your daughter was 90% Princess Leia right now, except for the hair and the lack of an emergency.”  
Loki doesn’t even get the reference, but he rolls his eyes anyway because he is _sure_ it was just ridiculous.  
  
           “Begone from my room, mortal. Oh, but _do_ bother to announce yourself on the next occasion you wish to barge into my chambers uninvited.”  
Stark truly is an _abysmal_ host.  
  
           “Uh – will do, Elsa. But what if I wanna build a snowman?” Loki squints at Stark; he really does dislike the arrogant slant of that mouth. It would do well to have those lips sewn shut, perhaps, and Loki allows this thought to show on his face in the form of a deadly, close-lipped smile as he tilts his head just-so.  
  
           “Perhaps if it were built of your bones. Mortal bones are still white, yes?” Loki intones sweetly, and Stark stares at him. Loki thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile around the corners of his mouth, but Stark coughs to cover it and waves him off, starting to turn away.  
  
           “Er, right. Forget Elsa, you’re Scar or something, I don’t know.” Stark shakes his head, and Loki lets him leave without bothering to give him another word.  
  
           Somehow, inanely, he has the idea that he’s only made his Stark problem worse, by giving that answer. Loki brushes off the thought as ludicrous, and returns to the book he had brought from Asgard; he had been reading it before Hela's surprise visit. It is a special book, from Frigga, and is enchanted to house all the books of Asgard’s royal library, one at a time. One must simply close the book, think of the book one wishes to read, and upon opening it shall be that book.  
  
           Loki is refreshing himself with what Asgard knows of Midgard's history, as befits an ambassador to this realm.

  
           The day after Thor leaves, Loki finds himself atop the tallest tower in the city, surveying the damage. Stark had called it ‘the Empire State’; really, Midgardians and their frivolous names. He glances up into the sky, at the remains of Innus’ portal, which had allowed the Chitauri to enter from their dimension. There is still a whisper of magic around that same circle of sky; a slight discoloration the only visible trace.  
  
           He contemplates Esmid’s words, and is galled at himself for reacting so vehemently. Nothing Esmid said was beyond the ramblings of a madman, but still there is a thought that nags at the back of Loki’s mind. He cannot picture what it is, as there were only Esmid’s disturbing overtures, the explosion, and what came afterwards.  
  
           Afterwards, Stark had shooed his Captain off Loki like a worried hen. In retrospect, Loki supposed it was rather amusing. Stark had made an aborted motion as though to check Loki for injuries, but stopped himself; likely remembering that those of Asgard did not so easily succumb to bumps and scratches. It had taken only a moment, and Stark had quickly recovered, moving past Loki to examine the remains of the Innus machine. The Captain had helped Loki to his feet, just as Thor and the Director entered. Loki had allowed himself to share a grim look with Thor, before minutely shaking his head. Thor had sighed, knowing that meant there had been no worthy information taken from the machine before it had detonated.  
  
           Loki is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of star engines blaring; he doesn’t move, simply allows Stark in his mechanical suit to hover into his field of vision. There is a moment of silence before it is broken by the sound of Stark’s metal mask sliding back, revealing his face.  
  
           “Any idea what’s next?” Loki grants him a shake of his head.  
  
           “I remain here, for further sign of Esmid. I doubt he is finished with Midgard. There is something here that he wants.” Stark considers him.  
  
           “What do you think that is?” Loki watches him, calmly.  
  
           “It could be any number of things; there is an abundance of natural resources here and numerous places to enter from space. Esmid would not limit himself to striking the same place twice when there are less-prepared pockets of Midgard from which to choose.” Stark hums thoughtfully, at that, even as he maneuvers himself up to sit beside Loki on the ledge.  
  
           “Then how about we warn them?” Loki sighs.  
  
           “The odds Esmid would pick another heavily-populated area are slim. If there is something here he wants, the prudent course of action would be to establish a base in a remote area, and start his search from there.”  
  
           “Makes sense.” Stark supplies. Loki nods, acquiescing silently. They sit quietly, for a few beats. Then –  
  
           “So nicely said, Loki. You know me well.” Loki knows that voice – he is spinning around to his feet in a breath, a dagger unsheathed, hilt curled in his hand. Stark is beside him, in tandem, the hum of his shooting stars readying to fire.  
  
           Esmid stands atop the spire; but not really atop it. Loki narrows his eyes; this is like Hela’s illusion, before. But Stark reacts in the second it takes Loki to realize this; the star beams fly through Esmid without ever creating a ripple. Esmid’s face never loses its amused condescension, even as his gaze briefly shifts to Stark.  
  
           “And Anthony Stark. I have much admired your work from afar, especially that ball of energy in your chest.” Esmid’s smile grows wider. “I do hope you should let me borrow it, sometime.”  
  
           “Go to hell.” Stark spits at him, his faceplate slamming down as he raises his palms in defense, again; he doesn’t fire this time, but the gesture is plain. Esmid only chuckles.  
  
           “All in its proper time.” Esmid moves his gaze to Loki, his eyes hooding. “Loki. Always a pleasure.” It’s practically purred, and the tone fills Loki with disgust. He flexes his fingers around the hilt of the dagger, adjusts his posture, eyes narrowed towards Esmid’s illusion.  
  
           “Why have you appeared here?” Esmid smiles at him.  
  
           “To invite you and your mortal friends to my abode, of course.” Stark bristles beside Loki.  
  
           “What, you think we’d go anywhere with _you_?” Esmid outright laughs, at that.  
  
           “A jest, dear Stark, merely a jest. I am well aware you see me as nothing more than a mad man.” Stark snaps at him.  
  
           “Well, _yeah_ , siccing your alien minions on us and setting off a bomb planted in your own android subordinate tends to lend credence to that theory. So why don’t you just crawl back into that little hole of space you came out of and we’ll call it even?” Esmid peers amusedly back at Stark, for that, slightly tilting his head.  
  
           “It rankles you, does it not? That there was not enough debris left to figure out my machinery. That the explosion was so neatly organized that the fine circuitry was burned into cinder, leaving nothing into which you could stick your intruding nose. That is what infuriates you, is it not, Stark?” There is a tendril of fear climbing in the back of Loki’s chest, and he steps forward; he does not make to shield Stark, merely calls the attention back to himself before Stark can run his mouth even further into the ground.  
  
           Esmid is drinking in every observation; Loki recognizes the signs. It is best to give him nothing more, so as to limit what can be used against them, later.  
  
           “What do you want with Misgard, Esmid?” Loki’s tone is steel, but Esmid’s eyes close in rapture at the last word, and he sighs pleasurably.  
  
           “Ahh, my name sounds so lovely in your mouth.” Loki makes a mental note to never say it, again.  
  
           “Frost Giant.” Loki spits, instead. “Answer my inquiry. Midgard has done nothing to you; its people are primitive. For what, possibly, could the cost of an invasion be worth?” Esmid opens his eyes again, smiling benevolently down at Loki, his fingers steepling together in front of his own gut.  
  
           “Your daughter would understand. Would you, I wonder, if I were to explain it?” Esmid tilts his head, watching Loki measuredly. Loki is about to snap at him, when Esmid continues after a completely unnecessary pause.  
  
           “Time does not move in a line, does not move in a circle. It does not follow these rules of the physical world, because it is not physical in nature. What Midgard has done will be done. Everything exists at once, but we can only see a fraction of that existence; a single path amidst all others, one at a time. We fool ourselves into thinking there is a past, present and future when those without physical restraints know the truth. Your daughter is the keeper of this; she exists in all times at once. It is not she who is strange, but the rest of us; we are blind to all that we cannot comprehend, wherein she sees all. I have trained myself to see more existences of time, so I may better direct those who are limited.” Esmid’s illusion descends, slightly, bending towards Loki, a hand reaching out as his eyes fill with fondness.  
  
           “Loki, we can direct it together. You possess the potential to see everything. Only Midgard must suffer; must be destroyed.” Esmid’s eyes slide to the side, watching Stark and Loki feels inexplicably unsettled. “Only Midgard holds what must be destroyed.” When Esmid’s hand ventures too close, Loki lashes out with his dagger, snarling.  
  
           “You are _mad_. Midgard has done nothing to deserve obliteration.” Esmid’s illusionary hand remains intact where the blade slid through, but he still watches Loki intently from beneath his hooded gaze.  
  
           “It has already begun; even now, you choose a paltry alliance over true knowledge. On only your brother’s word, you refuse to see what preserving Midgard will cost.” Loki straightens, standing proud and tall – every inch his lineage – and glaring straight into that depraved face.  
  
           “My brother is _King_ ; the Allfather, in case your brain has addled in your insanity. His word is law, and his allies are mine. The mortals here do not deserve your wrath for having done _nothing_.” Esmid’s illusion withdraws in the air, but a cold anger is inching over its face; it glances towards Stark and Loki feels his hackles raise again. He takes another step forward, unsheathing his long knife with the hand not holding the dagger. Loki points it straight at Esmid’s illusion, which is now starting to blur along the edges as it disintegrates. Esmid watches Loki as Esmid delivers his final, parting words of madness.  
  
           “You have made the wrong choice. Much mortal blood will spill before you shall see the truth; those lives shall burden _your_ sleep, not mine.”  
  
           Loki deigns to give him no response; his eyes are steel, as is his blade, and lets that be answer enough. Esmid gives him a sorrowful smile, his head shaking as he vanishes.  
  
           Loki sheathes his long knife once Esmid is gone, and turns to climb back down the tower. Stark places an armored hand on his shoulder; Loki glances back at him and Stark’s faceplate slides back up. Stark looks, of all else, concerned.  
  
           “That was pretty badass, for someone who doesn’t like us Earthlings.” Loki only grants him a tired, wan smile.  
  
           “My King’s judgments are just, and your world does not deserve destruction merely because I have not an affinity for your people.” Stark gifts him with a little smile, at that.  
  
           “Yeah, well… How did you get up here, anyway?” Loki can’t help but quirk a slight smirk, to the abrupt change of topic. Stark is so transparent.  
  
           “I’ve seen you guys do some serious shit, but I don’t think flying’s one of them.” Loki merely shakes his head at the ridiculousness of Stark’s statement, moving to sheath his dagger.  
  
           “I climbed, of course.” Loki makes to step down onto the next ledge, but Stark does not release his shoulder; instead, he squeezes it.  
  
           “What, really?” Loki sighs, and only nods, rolling his shoulder back, slightly, in a subtle ‘hint’ to be released. Stark either doesn’t notice, or purposefully ignores it.  
  
           “Yes. Do excuse me, Stark. I shall begin my descent so I might arrive back at your tower in time for your nightly meal.” Stark actually laughs at him, and Loki turns to give him an irritated side-glare.  
  
           “What? C’mon, no, we’re just over there.” Stark points, with one armored finger, at Stark Tower just across the city. Loki gives him a flat look.  
  
           “I do not fly.” Stark gives him an impish grin, and Loki has the abrupt sense that he’s made a horrible mistake.  
  
           “Well, we’ll have to fix that, won’t we?” Stark’s foot stars come to life suddenly, and they rocket him forward and into Loki, knocking him off his feet and into the waiting sky.  
  
           “ _Stark!_ ” For a weightless moment Loki fears a fall from this height, and his fingers claw into the metal covering Stark’s shoulders, digging grooves as he clutches to the armor, looking down, down, down at the streets far below. Stark laughs loudly in his ear, bringing his arms around him as his tone develops a teasing edge.  
  
           “Relax, Lokes, I’m not gonna drop ya. Just enjoy the view, yeah? Feel that Atlantic ocean breeze on your face – owow _ow_!” Loki is glaring death straight into Stark’s deplorably smug little face as he purposefully digs his fingers further into the suit, denting it inward. His voice is a mask of calm.  
  
           “Land us. _Now_.” Stark snorts at him, a little, and his faceplate snaps mechanically back down.  
  
           “Fine, whatever; you’re no fun.”  
  
           They glide at an easy pace towards Stark Tower, and admittedly it _is_ a shorter distance to travel. Still, Loki does not see the need to communicate that to the ass who just _pushed_ him off the roof of the tallest tower in New York.

* * *

  
           There is a dream Loki has that night, and it is unfamiliar, yet haunting. He is younger, much younger, and is strolling amongst the mistletoe. There is nothing very exceptional about the plant, except its berries are white, and Loki has heard it is poisonous to mortals. It really is a shame, as the taste is something quite unique. It is a meadow of mistletoe, and as Loki casts his eyes over it, they fall upon Hela.  
  
           No, it is not Hela. It is Sigyn, as when they were children. She has a woven mistletoe crown in her hair, and Loki finds himself living out a memory. He cannot hear what she says, but she laughs and he vaguely recalls something about giving her a real crown when they would wed. They did wed, and Sigyn’s symbol had been mistletoe. The sign of their house and heirs would bear the magpie holding a sprig of mistletoe – Vali first, then Nari, and Hela, should she ever want it. Loki plucks a bit of mistletoe, letting it rest in his palm; it is a smaller palm, fingers plumper, skin pinker. He is a child.  
  
           “So small, is it not? And yet, such a change from so small a thing.” The voice makes him spin around in alarm, the mistletoe lost, the image of the laughing child, Sigyn, dissipating from the periphery of his vision as Loki lays eyes on this new arrival.  
  
           It is a Frost Giant, but young – white hair instead of dark, looking as though it had been touched by frost. The child looks beaten, his torso is bare and he wears only a tattered loincloth. Red eyes drink him in, and Loki narrows his.  
  
           “Who are you to be in Asgard? Jotun are forbidden here.” The child grins, revealing sharp, pointed teeth.  
  
           “I wanted to meet you. I have seen so much about you, Loki. I wanted to see if the visions were true.” Loki does not allow himself to take a step back; to do so would imply weakness. Instead, he straightens and adopts his most princely, authoritative tone.  
  
           “My Father shall kill you if he sees you here. Return to your frozen wasteland at once.” Instead of listening to what he’s saying, the child’s head tilts to the side, red eyes watching intently.  
  
           “Mistletoe shall not always remind you of Sigyn.” The child states, suddenly, and Loki scowls at him.  
  
           “She is my friend and future wife. Mistletoe is hers. I should never forget that.” The child’s somber attitude disappears as he grins again.  
  
           “You _shall_ forget. And instead, you shall remember Baldur.” Loki finds himself becoming irate, at all of these riddles. He feels as though he is being danced around, being made fun of, and his pride does not like it.  
  
           “Begone, lest I get thee gone myself.” The child laughs; a horrid, chilling sound that can only ever come from unnatural glee.  
  
           “Such promises, Prince Loki!” The child croons, its devil’s eyes overbright with anticipation. “You better keep them!” It croons, wriggling its fingers fondly at Loki before a black, swirling vortex swallows it up from behind, and; it is gone.  
  
           Loki stands in the white field of mistletoe, alone. The sun is setting. He glances back towards where Sigyn had been; now, there is Hela. She watches him, but not like the Frost Giant child from before; her blue eyes lack emotion, whereas the child’s had swum in an overabundance of it.  
  
           “And so. you met Esmid.” Her voice is soft. “This you will remember, Father. Time will not allow you to forget.”  
  
           Before Loki can ask what she means, he finds himself awake, staring at a blank ceiling. He judges the dimness in the room as an indication it is still night. Loki sits up, sheets pooling around his waist, and rests an elbow on a raised, bent knee, the side of his hand supporting his forehead. He stares at the folds of cloth in his lap from beneath the shadow of his fingers, trying to sift through the memory for any meaning.  
  
           For it _had_ been a memory; one he had forgotten, one long ago on the edges of Asgard, beyond the barriers surrounding the city. The Frost Giant child had been Loki’s first inkling that there were other ways between the realms; the Bifrost was not the only option. But he had not known that was Esmid. Were it not for Hela, seeking to clarify what he had seen, Loki might never have known.  
  
           “Sir, do you require assistance?” Jarvis’ voice echoes from above, and Loki lets his eyes close as he releases a slow, measured sigh, straightening himself in his seat.  
  
           “No, thank you.”  
  
           Esmid had been watching him far longer than Loki had thought possible – for since they were _children_ , really? Perhaps Hela had shown herself in his dream to clarify the danger they were all in; that Esmid’s obsession with Loki knew no bounds, had no reason. All of this information, and yet they had only met, face-to-face, once.  
  
           Loki finds himself dreading the moment when Esmid comes to Midgard; and Loki fears not for the mortals, but for himself. The mortals would only feel destruction from Esmid’s hand, but Loki… He shudders to think of the extent to which Esmid’s ‘admiration’ of him extends.  
  
           Well, all the more reason to keep Midgard from falling. That is why Thor stationed Loki here, after all. If nothing else, he will fulfill his duties as ambassador. The millions of unsuspecting, naïve mortals deserve perhaps that much of Loki and his honor.

* * *

  
           The following day there is nothing, although Loki does send a message to Thor of Esmid’s appearance. Loki had thought of mentioning it to Stark’s comrades, but it appears this is unnecessary. Their Director sends Loki a video message, himself, very politely requesting his presence at a meeting later that day. Loki gives his diplomat’s smile and agrees with all the usual trappings of gratitude, but knows the Director merely wants Loki to confirm Stark’s story.  
  
           When Loki arrives, however, there is already a video of the encounter playing on a large screen, and uncomfortably Loki reminds himself of the technology here. The Avenging Warriors are gathered around it, and Stark is gesticulating to the Director from the front, likely defending his uncharacteristic silence during Esmid’s ‘visit’. Loki, of course, had placed a small silencing spell on Stark after his last outburst, hoping to glean information from Esmid without the mortal interrupting with bluster every five seconds. It had been risky, and Esmid had noticed the spell, but it seems Stark wasn’t as good at detecting magical wavelengths when he wasn’t especially scanning for them; it was a good piece of information to know.  
  
           The Director notices Loki, then, and greetings are made. Reintroductions are given, and this time Loki states the names he has for each in his head.  
  
           “Steve Rogers.” A hand is extended; Loki shakes it politely.  
  
           “Captain.”  
  
           “Natasha Romanov.” Loki smirks, ever-so-slightly, when she merely assesses him with her eyes, and nods without attempting a hand-shake.  
  
           “The Widow.”  
  
           “Clint Barton.” Loki resists the urge to roll his eyes as the man salutes him mockingly, of all things.  
  
           “The Hawk, yes.”  
  
           “Dr. Bruce Banner.” The frail fence of a man gives him a self-depreciating smile, and Loki allows his mischief to tingle into the air, a bit.  
  
           “The Beast. Or, at least, his keeper.” The man looks suitably insulted for a brief moment, there is a flash of green in his eyes and for a thrilling moment Loki thinks he might be treated to said beast’s company, instead. But then it’s gone, and the man only stares at him with a small smile.  
  
           “Yeah, I’ve heard worse. It’ll take more than sticks and stones for me to show you my parlor trick.” Loki hums in interest, because _that_ sounds more like a challenge, but is interrupted by Stark.  
  
           “Hey, how come you call these guys by their nicknames and I’m just ‘Stark’?” Loki shoots a droll look over the table, to where Stark is leaning over the table, one hand splayed for support, a profound frown on his ridiculous face. Loki allows his expression to turn saccharine.  
  
           “Because you, _Stark_ , have enough of an ego without my adding to it. The others, I gather, do not mind their titles?” For show, he glances around the room; the Captain shrugs, the Widow sends him a bored look, the Hawk grins and gives him a thumbs up, and the Beast makes an uncomfortable look with his face. Loki allows his expression to soften.  
  
           “For they shall be known as such in Asgard, as there it is tradition to be known by one name and one name alone. These titles are ones of _honor_ , based on aspects of each of you that set you apart.” He emphasizes, while looking directly at the Beast. The man gives him a little smile; permission to tolerate it. Satisfied, Loki looks back to Stark; the mortal is still frowning.  
  
           “So, what, I don’t get a title?” Loki _does_ roll his eyes, at that, and he thinks he hears some stifled laughter. Instead of seeking the source of it, he sends a flat look towards Stark.  
  
           “You have a tower, and your ‘industries’. Are those not enough?” Honest-to-Odin, Stark actually _pouts_ , at that, and Loki is more than relieved when the Director interrupts them.  
  
           “All right, settle your petticoats, ladies, we’ve got to discuss what happened on that rooftop.”  
  
           “Are you referring to Stark attempting to push me off the tower, or to the Frost Giant?” Loki cannot resist that final little jab, and he is completely rewarded by the fact everyone’s heads swivel accusingly to Stark, who slides down into his chair, snapping defensively at them all.  
  
           “It was just a joke, OK! I _caught_ him! Can we get back on topic?” Stark sends him a sharp, hot glare once everyone looks away and Loki meets it with only a sweet smile.  
  
           “Certainly.”  
  
           “Loki, who is this guy?” The video freezes, and Loki looks up at Esmid’s smug face. He straightens in his seat, puts his hands together on the table before him.  
  
           “I will say his name only once, as I abhor it; that, is Esmid. He is a Frost Giant; a native of Jotunheim.” Upon seeing blank faces all around, he sighs, leaning back slightly.

           “Jotunheim is a land of ice and cliffs. The Frost Giants inhabit the caves and outcroppings, and some are adept magic wielders. They attempted to invade Midgard some eons ago, but Asgard succeeded in pushing them back. My father, the former King, took the source of their power in victory. There has been a strained peace ever since.”  
  
           “Didn’t seem so strained with you, prince.” The Widow’s eyes and tone are sharp on him, and Loki pauses, before allowing himself to sigh.  
  
           “Yes. It appears he is obsessed with me. Recent information suggests this started when we were children.”  
  
           “You were _friends_ as children?” The Beast cuts in; Loki answers him calmly.  
  
           “No. He was trespassing on the outskirts of Asgard and I instructed him to leave.”  
  
           “So, who’s to say he just doesn’t want _you_?” Loki gives the Captain an even look.  
  
           “Esmid has no sane sense of reasoning. If I were to leave, he would still seek to destroy Midgard. With me here, there is actually less of a chance of him outright destroying you, if his aim is to attempt to possess me.” Just stating it aloud makes the words sound filthy, but Loki is certain this is Esmid’s goal.  
  
           The mortals around him look at each other and frown.  
  
           “What can we do, then?” The Hawk ventures to ask after a length of tense silence, and Loki is glad to hear it.  
  
           “Prepare. Esmid may know where we are because his Innus machine may have sent the location to him. It would be wise to relocate within, but not move _from_ , the city, lest more innocents be caught unawares if Esmid comes and we are not here. Prepare the people who live in the city; suggest they move outside of it.”  
  
           “Wait, you can’t be serious. Evacuate all of New York?” Loki sends the Captain a somber glance.  
  
           “It is either that, or erect defenses should Esmid decide to attack by way of space, once more. It is not a matter of _if_ he will come, but _when_. I have informed my brother of this development, and he has pledged to provide what support he can, from Asgard. Midgard shall not stand alone.”

* * *

  
           “So what was that back there?” It is Stark who walks into his room, uninvited as usual, and Loki raises his eyes from his book.  
  
           “I beg your pardon?” Stark is eying him; he’s frowning again, Loki notices.  
  
           “You said Esmid would pick somewhere out of the way; somewhere remote. Why would he attack the city, instead?” Loki sighs, and closes his book in his lap to fix Stark with a disappointed look.  
  
           “Really, Stark? I had expected more from you.” He holds the bluster with a simple raised palm; no magic, just a request for silence. “I had made those determinations without knowing the extent of Esmid’s obsession with me. Given that, his reasoning follows a different line of predictability. He will go where I am, if his aim is to either ‘impress’ me or capture me.” Stark crosses his arms over his chest; Loki recognizes the defensive gesture.  
  
           “So then why don’t you just leave? Go to some remote location, so Esmid won’t catch innocent people in the crossfire?”  
  
           “Are you imbecilic enough to assume I haven’t already thought of that?” Loki rejoins, irately. “If I stay, Esmid will attack New York. If I leave, Esmid will attack New York. He has made that abundantly clear. But if I were to leave, I would be seen as having left my post, as having run away when our Midgardian allies need us most. It is preferable to stay and die in battle than run and avoid the confrontation.” Stark snorts at him, for that.  
  
           “You don’t seriously _believe_ that.” No, Loki does _not_ , but living in Asgard all his life has taught him that there are few things Asgardians will avoid at all costs; running from a battle being one of them. Loki can see Stark knows this; it is the same certainty as when Stark called him out on his magic. Loki lets his eyes speak, but his mouth says something else entirely.  
  
           “It is the way of Asgard, of our King. We do not abandon our allies.” Besides, Thor had said he would send reinforcements. Between the two of them, certainly most of the city could be saved. It is now Loki notices that Stark is watching him, suspiciously, and so Loki merely peers at him, in response. “Yes?”  
  
           “Do you always hide this much?” Loki favors him with a diplomatic smile.  
  
           “I am an ambassador here, if you recall. One must hide certain things to achieve others.” Stark scoffs at him.  
  
           “Nah, that’s not it. Look, I was there, too, and maybe you’re sorta uncomfortable I showed that video to the others – “  
  
           “‘Uncomfortable’ does not begin to define it.” Loki jabs, primly.  
  
           “ – _but_ I had to. C’mon, they already knew he was behind this from the tape in the holding cell with Innus, and when it comes to wackos like this, the more people who know just how batshit insane they are, the better.” Loki considers him, for a long moment. Then, when nothing else rises as a response, he goes with a simple –  
  
           “Why.” Stark blinks at him.  
  
           “Why what.” Loki scowls at him.  
  
           “Why entrust such a thing to more people? The more eyes that see and ears that hear – ”  
  
           “ – the more friends you have.” Stark finishes for him, with the beginnings of a smile playing around his mouth. Loki cants his head, puzzled.  
  
           “Friends?” Stark raises an eyebrow at him.  
  
           “It’s not as bad as it sounds, trust me.” Loki rolls his eyes. Stark sounds disbelieving.  
  
           “What, you didn’t have any friends back in Asgard?”  
  
           “I had comrades; battle companions. My family; my sons, my daughter, my wife – ” It is out of Loki’s mouth before he can stop it because yes; Sigyn was what he would consider a friend. But Loki is not lost enough that he doesn’t see the way Stark’s eyes grow dull and distant, and how Stark grins wide at him, in response.  
  
           “Wife, huh? You lucky dog, I’d have never guessed.” Loki pins him with a glare to keep him from talking; it doesn’t work, of course.  
  
           “So, what, you’ve got this sweet little family setup at home? Sounds nice. But no friends, huh? See, I’ve got _boatloads_ of friends, people clamoring to invite me to parties and – ”  
  
           “Do stop your tongue from wagging, lest it fall off.” Loki almost growls, and Stark gives him that same grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.  
  
           “Hasn’t yet, _Prince_ Loki.” For some reason that makes him snap, and before he realizes it Loki’s hand is in Stark’s collar, lifting him off the floor; their faces an inch apart, Loki's voice a low, heated snarl.  
  
           “My _wife_ was killed in a breach of the palace, in an attempt to murder my family and destroy the only existing royal heirs.” Stark’s eyes go wide; and clear, Loki notices. _Good_.  
  
           “But isn’t Thor – ”  
  
           “Thor has not wed, and has no heirs. In the event of his death, the crown passes to me and my line. I am my brother’s life away from the crown, and if I truly valued it over him, he would be dead by now.” Stark’s hands come up between them; not aggressively, but placating, palms-out. Loki is still holding him off the floor.  
  
           “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I never insinuated that.” Loki’s eyes narrow, hooding, and he examines Stark’s face carefully.  
  
           “Didn’t you?” Stark’s guilty look reveals that yes, Loki had read him correctly; Stark calling him ‘prince’ in an attempt to drive home that Loki was not ‘king’. A petty revenge, on Stark’s part, for being hurt by information he hadn’t expected. Loki holds him there a moment more, they eye each other, and then he lets Stark drop back onto his feet. Loki turns away, striding to pick up the book that had fallen off his lap when he lunged.  
  
           “Hey, uh – is that what Innus did?” Standing once more, Loki turns slightly, but not enough to look behind him. Stark stumbles on. “I, uh, saw the footage with Steve just before you went into the interrogation room and – ”  
  
           Of course. Loki’s shoulders sag slightly; how many times he has been caught by it, and yet this Midgardian technology of recording the past while it is the present always catches him unawares. He shakes his head, trying to dismiss the wave of sadness forever hovering beneath his anger.  
  
           “Yes. Sigyn died in defense of our children; she allowed them to escape.” For once, Loki thinks that this is enough to silence Stark; he is wrong. There are shuffling footsteps, he hears the door open, the creak of the floorboards as Stark shifts his weight in hesitation, and then –  
  
           “Sounds like a real stand-up gal.” Loki doesn’t know what it means, but the context and tone of Stark’s voice make it clear this is no insult. As such, Loki nods, and risks a glance back to the doorway. Stark gives him a lopsided smile, his hand on the threshold of the door while it’s hidden in the wall.  
  
           “She was indeed.” Stark nods, and ducks out of the doorway; the door slides back shut behind him, and Loki is left to contemplate his thoughts.

* * *

  
           There are no signs of Esmid, of which Loki is understandably wary. He finds himself on the roof more often than not, using his magic to scan what he can. Long ago, the Keeper of the Bifrost had noticed Loki’s magical talents, but upon request from the Lady Frigga had vowed to never tell a soul, so long as said magic never threatened Asgard. Naturally, it never did, and so Loki has little fear of reprisal from Heimdall as he spreads the web of his magic across the stars, subtly weaving a protective shell over the city.  
  
           It soon became apparent that Esmid would not hastily attempt to seize his dream of destroying Midgard. In the weeks that followed Esmid’s illusionary appearance, Loki had taken it upon himself to provide measures other than what Asgard and Midgard itself could provide, as defense. Each tower in the city could be used as different supporting points from which the barrier could draw strength; in the form of enchanted stone or metal which had required Stark’s particularly peculiar brand of persuasion in order to grant Loki access.  
  
           It was risky; revealing this much of himself that could be traced back to Asgard. However, Stark was being wholeheartedly cooperative, offering to use his own technological prowess to overwhelm that of anyone who might be spying on Loki’s magical activities. It really wasn’t much, at least to a mortal eye; a ceremonial ritual, a few lines read aloud from the special book Frigga had gifted him, and mere hours alone with constant physical contact on the new ballast to forge the bond through Loki himself and between one slab of material and another. The hardest had been the first; with no energy to draw upon, it had taken a good amount of Loki’s power to initiate the bond. In subsequent weeks, and for each following site, Loki could draw upon the static power embedded into every other site to help bolster a new one. As such, he was required to use less and less magic with each new site, but nonetheless pushed himself to his limits so that more power would be floating around in the invisible barrier instead of too little.  
  
           Loki had been the only representative of Asgard when the Director and the Captain had addressed the city. Stark and the rest had been present, of course; Loki, in his most princely attire, as was fitting of his title. What had been unexpected was the gaggle of mortals with various odd devices in their hands (aside from some with what Loki recognized as what must be the Midgardian equivalent of scrolls and quills). These devices included what Loki learned warily from Stark as ‘cameras’; the contraptions capable of recording the present before it became the past.  
  
           One of these clamoring mortals addressed him, after the Captain had finished his proclamation recommending the immediate evacuation of the city.  
  
           “And what does the alien have to say about all this? Where are your buddies? Why aren’t they here to protect us?” Loki had gazed down upon this mortal calmly, not balking from a chance to meet this inquiry.  
  
           “I am Loki; Prince and First Advisor of Asgard. My brother the King has pledged to send assistance, but his presence is unfortunately required in matters of state.”  
  
           “How can we know they’ll really come? I mean, you guys haven’t lifted a finger during all our wars and now you suddenly want to help?” Another mortal interrupted, this time. Loki shifted focus, emanating reassurance.  
  
           “Thor has given his word and pledged an alliance with Midgard – ”  
  
           “But New York is only one part of Earth! The Avengers can’t speak for all the countries – “  
  
           “Allow me to clarify. Thor extends the same offer of protection to all of Midgard. The current, most immediate threat is on this city of New York, and upon having spoken with its representatives, this is where Thor shall send his reinforcements. Should other cities and countries here wish the same, we shall discuss meeting with their delegates and determining if they would welcome our aid, as well.”  
  
           “What kind of aid are we talking about, bub?” Another interjects, and _my_ , is the constant barrage of rude questions trying Loki’s patience. Still, he puts on a convincing smile and answers, as he knows he must sate at least an iota of their curiosity with simple, easy truths if they are to trust any part of what he says.  
  
           “Perhaps an Asgardian warrior to each city, but certainly a barrier like to Asgard’s own, to protect those in the city proper. Concerning the safety of New York and its citizens, however, I should hope most shall follow the Captain’s recommendations and relocate outside the city. Perhaps he shall not come today, nor tomorrow, but he _shall_ come, and this city shall once more become a battleground. Those with the means to escape should do so well beforehand. Those who remain, we shall do our utmost to ensure their continued safety.”  
  
           One mortal in the crowd raises a hand with a pen in it, eyes flicking between Loki and the Avenging Warriors he stands amidst.  
  
           “And who is… ‘ _he_ ’, exactly?” Loki resists the urge to close his eyes and take a brief inhale. He merely stares at the mortal, trying to muster the will to speak the Frost Giant’s name across the screens of thousands, nay millions, of mortals, steadies himself, and –  
  
           “Esmid. The wacko’s name is Esmid.” Stark cuts in, jumping slightly forward from where he’d been standing beside Loki, and Loki notes the ‘camera’ swivel its shiny round eye to Stark, instead, who prattles on.  
  
           “And we’re not going without a fight. Get out of here if you can, and if you can’t you heard him; we’ll defend you to our dying breath.” Stark cocks a grin, Loki can see as he turns his head to consider Stark addressing the audience. Stark’s eyes flick to him, then, he gives a little wink, his diplomat’s smile climbing a notch more arrogant as he swings an arm around Loki’s shoulders, like they’re blood brothers.  
  
           “Isn’t that right, _Prince_ Loki?” Loki deadpans, just a bit, at the blatant inside joke, and knows it is a casual show of Asgardian strength that he did not budge under Stark’s unexpected weight. His bearing remains as aloof and princely as it ever was, but he shows an edge of good humor by clasping the one of Stark’s shoulders that faces the crowd and tilting his head in acquiescence, in a show of returned camaraderie.  
  
           “Indeed, _Mister_ Stark.” Stark’s eyes flash up at him along with his stupidly confident, oblivious smile, and it is all Loki can do to avoid rolling his eyes in front of the ‘camera’s cataloguing their every move.  
  
           It is all in the interest of retaining useful allies, of course.

* * *

  
           The next time Loki hears of Esmid, it is from a wholly unexpected source. Thor sends word, from Asgard, of images of Esmid appearing in the palace. Loki immediately thinks of his sons, young in ways that Hela shall never be. He inquires after them, and Thor assures him they are well-protected. Still, there is an uneasy feeling surrounding Esmid being able to project his image past Asgard’s hereto-impenetrable barriers. Thor promises to look into things, and check security.  
  
           Not long after this, it is Heimdall who next contacts Loki. He tells of an invasion force, of invisible ships gliding through the Bifrost. They were small, furtive, and Heimdall tells how he could only watch as they sped out towards the city. He raised the alarm, but as no one could see the ships, they could hardly target them. Hard as it was, Heimdall kept his place at the Bifrost, attempting to keep more from coming through. But they were so light, so quick; tiny enough that not even three men could have fit inside.  
  
           As quickly as they came, they were gone, and with them Loki’s sons, who had been playing in the mistletoe meadows with their caretaker in his absence. Loki feels a chill in his bones, remembering, and Heimdall asserts it could be none other than Esmid. Loki sends an urgent message to Thor, but his brother’s image is harried and haunted. Thor immediately apologizes for the abduction of Vali and Nari; just as dear to him, as they are the only heirs to the throne. With their disappearance, the next generation of Asgardian rulers is in peril, as Hela cannot accept the crown. Because of who she is, she cannot show partiality to any one kingdom, as the skeletal crown of Nilfheim is hers immemorial. Secretly, Loki believes that after Vali’s (and later, Nari’s) births, Thor had been relieved that he would not be required to produce any heirs; no need to wed, if the line was already continued.  
  
           But this? _This_ is a tragedy; a colossal failure of ages-old Asgardian barrier technology, and a shaking of the belief in King Thor; for if he cannot keep his own nephews safe, what good is he to do so for all of Asgard, as her king? Loki recognizes the danger of this, but he also sees the lines etched into Thor’s forehead, the genuine anguish in his eyes as he admits his mistake, and Loki cannot pour more vitriol on the wound. Before all of the trappings of royalty and advisory, they are still brothers, and if even all of Asgard is against Thor, Loki will stand beside him.  
  
           He says as much to this; that he trusts Thor to do nothing but his best in order to recover them, and then gently asks to speak with Hela. Thor looks just a little bit lighter, and that grateful-puppy look is sent Loki’s way as Thor sends for her. Soon, Thor ushers her into the reflection of the projection mirror, a large hand on either of her petite shoulders. She stares quietly at Loki with something knowing behind her eyes, as though seeing something beyond him.  
  
           They do not say anything to each other; not with Thor intruding.  
  
           Loki thinks he understands her, anyway. Vali and Nari were meant to be taken, and Hela knew this, but her role would not allow her to act to prevent it. What must happen must happen, and they all have their parts to play. That much, Loki knows Hela is allowing him to read from her face, and her bearing. He doesn’t know why, or for what purpose, but Hela’s bright blue eyes tell Loki to do what he must.  
  
           He must be _Loki_ ; must act as he would, must contribute his self to the play being set with all of them as actors. He smiles at her; hiding from Thor but he knows she sees his sadness, anyway. Hela gives a small nod, acknowledging the pain, but her lack of expression does not change.  
  
           “Be well, my Daughter.” Hela smiles at him just as Thor leans down; purely for effect, for a cover. Hela has never needed to pretend with Loki, or for Loki; only ever for everyone else, as he accepts her as she is.  
  
           “Yes, Father.”  
  
           The illusionary images of them dissipate, and Loki is utterly still for a long, tense, moment. Then there is a spike of hot green rage-magic, which slices through the air from Loki’s clenched fists and bisects everything around him. He glances indifferently around the room, before launching into tossing the furniture everywhere in anger. Loki must destroy it all, not the least to cover that first, desperate bolt of magic that escaped his control. Stark has said that the cameras in Loki’s room are necessary, a security precaution should someone attempt to break in. Beyond that, at the look Loki had given him for insinuating Loki could not adequately defend even just _himself_ , Stark had promised he would loop Loki’s video footage so long as Loki agreed to Jarvis sounding the alarm if something ever happened in his room.  
  
           There is likely an alarm blaring somewhere, due to his current behavior, but Loki is not in the mood to care of frightening his mortal allies. He is not harming _them_ , but rather inert, unimportant articles; like the walls, which he moves to once he runs out of standing objects to tear apart. With every strike, Loki envisions Esmid’s face breaking beneath his hands, for how _dare_ he. Loki’s sons are innocent just as much as the people of Midgard; they have nothing to do with this quarrel, and for them to be taken as pawns in this game the Frost Giant is playing is inexcusable.  
  
           Loki will drain Esmid’s blood if even a drop of Vali’s or Nari’s is spilt.

* * *

  
           Stark is the one who interrupts him, after a somewhat foreboding length of silence from Jarvis. By the time Loki hears the door slide open, his anger is spent. The bed has been clawed up and dismembered, torn bedding strewn everywhere before being flipped onto its side, gutted stuffing-ridden innards facing the door and the bed itself shielding Loki from it, as apparently the mattress is attached to the frame. The lamp formerly sitting atop his bedside table now lies broken on the floor, the drawers pulled out and splaying their mess everywhere. The large screen used for video playback is cracked where Loki jammed his fist through it, fractured glass veins running out from the crux of the impact. He pulled some wires out with his fingers as he withdrew his fist, so the screen really does look a mess. Other than that, the rest of the furniture is in shambles, the curtains torn, the walls scratched and kicked.  
  
           As footsteps begin to wander from the door and around the gutted behemoth of a bed, Loki allows himself to come into view. He is leaned against the wall, in the shadow of the upright-standing bed, his hair and borrowed Midgardian clothes a rumpled mess; casualties of his rage. His hands are uninjured; Asgardian skin is tougher than mortals’. He does not look up, but it seems he does not need to; Loki watches as Stark’s stocking feet come closer, avoiding various debris.  
  
           Stark squats down, putting himself into Loki’s line of vision.  
  
           “Bad news?” Loki sends him a wearied look; no effort, even, to appear scathing. Stark smiles, a little self-depreciatingly, and brushes some debris on the floor away before sitting, cross-legged, in front of Loki.  
  
           “That bad, hunh?”  
  
           Loki just closes his eyes and leans back against the wall; he is in no mood to deal with Stark’s ridiculousness, in this particular moment. Stark should be grateful Loki did not send him away with an illusion at the door, of the room looking perfectly normal behind a smart, condescending face.  
  
           Stark should be grateful Loki is even allowing him to see this. Were it any other of the ‘Avengers’ – as Loki has gleaned they are called, on Midgard – Loki would not have allowed the door to open. But Stark? Loki feels that even if Stark has barred _security_ from having access to the footage from Loki’s room, the same cannot be said for Jarvis. Point in case; Loki recalls Jarvis attempting to calm him, which can only mean there is still a _place_ recording video of him, in his room. And yet, Loki does not doubt Stark’s word that the footage is looped. It is likely looped for whoever runs the security, but not Stark himself – why else would Stark be here; now, of all times?  
Stark watched, and he waited, until Loki’s temper had subsided.  
  
           It is with this thought that Loki finally deigns to grant Stark his gaze, lifting his eyes open, once more. Stark is still sitting in front of him, the both of them hidden from the door by the bedframe lying on its side beside them. They stare at each other; Stark with that undying curiosity of a thousand stars, and Loki with exhaustion.  
  
           “My sons.” It tumbles out of Loki’s mouth, unexpectedly, but he stops the fragment before it can become a sentence. Nevertheless, Stark’s entire being goes still, his back straightening even as that curious intensity of his gaze only heightens.  
  
           “Are they dead?” It’s asked bluntly, but with no ill intent, and Loki huffs a ghost of a laugh.  
  
           “No. I believe he is holding them.” Stark tilts his head, and something shadowy crawls into the corners of his eyes.  
  
           “Hostages?” That one word holds a weight to it in Stark’s mouth, and Loki would wonder why, but it is still too much to think of, that his sons are in Esmid’s foul hands. He settles for closing his eyes, again, and merely offering a stiff, faint nod.  
  
           “Yes.” There is an inhale from Stark, and he doesn’t waste time to voice what they both know will come next.  
  
           “Esmid.” Loki feels his jaw set, but he does grant Stark another nod.  
  
           “Yes.” Silence. Silence long enough that Loki would think Stark has left, if not for the absence of pattering footfalls back to the door. He opens his eyes again, only to see Stark glaring at him, intently. Once Loki can see it, Stark leans forward and grasps his forearm.  
  
           “We’ll get them back. Kids have nothing to do with this… this _war_. Why would he take them?” Loki chuckles grimly, offering a broken, tilted smile in Stark’s direction.  
  
           “Because I am his obsession. He desires my attention above all else; stealing Vali and Nari is a way to ensure I am distracted by thoughts of him.” Stark’s eyebrows rise, at that.  
  
           “And what _are_ those thoughts?” Painfully, Loki smirks.  
  
           “Dismembering him, gouging his eyes out, sewing his lips shut and other various gruesome means of vengeance.” Stark just watches him, but it’s like he’s trying not to smile.  
  
           “So you decided to trash your room, instead?” Loki resists the urge to roll his eyes, and settles on giving Stark only a flat look.  
  
           “As he is nowhere within slashing distance, I thought it wise to take out my aggression on less… animate objects.” Stark seems to perk up, at that tidbit of information.  
  
           “So you did this to avoid taking it out on us? That’s sweet, but I think The Big Guy or Steve would’ve liked a sparring contest with an Asgardian in his worst mood.” Loki only shakes his head at him, and makes to turn away.  
  
           “In Asgard, it would have been expected for me to seek out an opponent, not ruin my living quarters. I have often opted for the latter, helped much by the discretion of my brother.” Stark’s hand, resting forgotten on his forearm still, tightens. Loki pauses, looks back at him.  
  
           “You can bunk with me.” Loki squints at him, but Stark plows on. “I’ve got other rooms, but you strike me as the type to have been alone too much for it to be good for you. Yeah?” Loki pulls his arm out of Stark’s hold, all too easily, while giving him an insulted glare.  
  
           “I do not require your charity.” Stark grins at him, the light of it even reaching his eyes.  
  
           “Not charity. This is my house, you’re one of our new friends, and I think you need some company besides that book of yours, right now.” Loki eyes him sulkily; really, he only wants to be left alone to nurse his wounds and plot various ways to inflict grievous injury upon Esmid. Still… Stark’s idea has merit – further, it is not offered with any mockery that Loki can discern – and let it never be known that Loki was not open to new ideas. Begrudgingly, he nods an agreement, and Stark jumps up like he’s been electrocuted, smile wide and radiant, hands sweeping up through the air in a quick clap.  
  
           “Great! I’ll go get an extra bed brought up and have Jarvis get everything ready. You come up soon, OK? I’ll get some popcorn and movies you just can’t miss if you want to learn about Earth culture. Don’t stay down here too long – I’m gonna send someone up to clean the room so you make sure you get your frosty ass upstairs if you don’t want them to see you looking like something the cat threw up!”  
Like a whirlwind, Stark is gone with that flutter of words and the sliding shut of the door behind him.  
  
           ‘ _Frosty ass_ ’? Loki has another horrible inkling that he’s just made a very serious mistake, but it is too late to rescind his agreement now.  
Curse these mortal fools and their lightning-quick efficiency.

* * *

           Stark holds Loki to his word; Loki has just barely dragged himself off the floor and made himself presentable when there is a knock at the door. He opens it to reveal a veritable team of people, who file in after he steps out. Pressing his book to his stomach – the only item he brought from Asgard besides the armor he wore during the journey through the Bifrost; and _that_ (along with his helmet, daggers and long knife) is hidden in a small pocket dimension so as not to be cumbersome. Jarvis offers mild, polite directional corrections whenever Loki makes a wrong turn, and soon he is at Stark’s penthouse.  
  
           There is more noise inside than Loki could attribute to even Stark alone; voices, laughter, the clink of glassware and the crunch of Midgard’s odd, if popular, food bags. Just as he raises his hand to knock, the noise in the room goes silent. He raises an eyebrow, and cranes his head; sure enough, there is a small black sphere just above and to the side of the door, which indicates a ‘camera’ eye is on him. Loki narrows his eyes at it, looks back to the door, and knocks, stubbornly, anyway. There is the sound of feet pounding and the door slides open in a rush; Stark, of course, looking far too happy that Loki is there.  
  
           “Hey! So I know I said it’d be just us, but _somebody_ got wind of it – ”  
  
           “Don’t blame this on me, you came in and commandeered all the DVDs, man! Pretty obvious there was gonna be a Movie Night up here!” That was the Hawk, Loki notices as he strides further into the room, his silent steps quite a contrast to Stark’s abrupt, whirling rejoinder. Hawk is (appropriately) perched on the back of the large couch in front of a screen similar to the one Loki, not too long ago, put his fist through.  
  
           “ – and told the whole Tower!” Stark accuses, and it is true, as Loki surveys the rest of the room. Captain is placing bowls of snacks on a low table already laden with them, Widow is seated on the couch, and even Beast seems to be present; pouring colored drinks from bottles into cups at a higher table in the back, near Midgard’s so-called ‘kitchen appliances,’ or so Loki has learned they are called. His read of the room completed, Loki glances back to Stark; who, surprisingly, has his hands on his hips and is eying Loki nervously. Loki lofts a single eyebrow at him.  
  
           “Is there a problem?” Stark laughs, and it’s full of nerves, too, feeding Loki’s curiosity as to the cause. Still, he retains his aloof disdain, only quirking his other brow in a silent bid for explanation. Stark hurries to acquiesce, coming into Loki’s space and grabbing a hold of his elbow; not aggressive, just urgent.  
  
           “Uh, w – well _no_ , but it’s just… You’re all right with this?” Loki is acutely aware of how everyone in the room is paying attention to their interaction, even as they pretend to be doing other things; their interest is too obvious. As such, Loki remains calm and collected.  
  
           “Of course.” Stark watches him, eyes suddenly shrewd despite his anxiety, and Loki wonders if he saw the lie. Loki brushes past him, anyway, easily gliding out of his hold, and moves to elegantly sit on the edge of the couch. Captain huffs a short laugh; by no means mean, just amused.  
  
           “Well, I guess that settles that.” Loki favors him with a tilt of the head and an indulging smile.  
  
           “Indeed. Now, would any of you care to explain what is it that a ‘Movie Night’ entails?” There is a beat of silence, before Hawk breaks out into laughter; the Beast, too, if more demure, as he arrives with a plate of drinks. That same sad smile that speaks of the way he views himself is present, but his words are reassuring enough.  
  
           “Movies are, uh… stories. People record them with cameras, and other people act out the stories, pretending to be the characters.” Loki hums in considering thought, taking a cup as Beast sits down on a chair opposite Captain, the snack table stretching between them.  
  
           “I see. So this is how Midgard tells stories, now? No longer in books or oral tales?”  
  
           “People do that, too; some of those become the best stories.” Widow finally joins the conversation, and Loki looks to her, leaned against the other armrest as she watches him. Hawk has slid down to settle next to her, towards the middle of the couch, leaving an obvious empty spot before ending with Loki at the other armrest. Sure enough, Stark scoots around the couch and flops into said spot, taking up a narrow baton with many buttons atop it.  
  
           “So, my friends and allies – what are we watching?”

* * *

           Afterwards, it is in the wee hours of the morning that the other ‘Avengers’ toddle back to their respective rooms. Loki is definably _not_ an Avenger, and per Stark’s hospitality while his room is being repaired, stakes out the movie-watching couch for himself, for the remainder of the night.  
  
           The screen is off and Stark leaves him alone, having adjourned to the bedroom. The only light comes from the city, outside the wide windows, and after staring at the ceiling awhile Loki decides to get up and stride over to them, to take in the view. It’s nothing he’s bothered to see, before; not while he’s been preoccupied weaving the barriers from the other towers – no, ‘sky-scrapers’, hadn’t Stark said?  
  
           Yes, those. Loki stands with his hands folded behind his back, watching the trickle of lights along the avenues and boulevards of New York. Beyond those are the sky-scrapers; some are dark, and some have faint illumination; Loki has learned that some of these places are points of business, and others are domiciles. Each light is a mortal; or a bundle of mortals, a family, or friends, or business owners, employees and customers. When do the lines blur, Loki wonders, between all these different roles mortals have to define one another?  
  
           Stark is a business owner, an Avenger, a tinkerer, an annoyance, and their host. So many contradictions summed up in just a few pounds of easily broken flesh.  
  
           And yet, why does Esmid seek to destroy them all? What vendetta is this, against an entire race that has been spared the greater part of threats from the galaxy, thanks to Asgard?  
  
           Or is that the point, after all; Midgard has always been favored by Asgard. Is Esmid’s madness merely a ploy, something to distract from a larger game in the scale of things? If Asgard fails to defend Midgard, the mightiness of her warriors will be called into question. Is this an attempt by Esmid to break the alliances that have held the universe together, for all these years? Muspelheim and Jotunheim, Nidavallir and Vanaheim, Alfheim and Svartalfheim, Midgard and Asgard – even the Light and Dark Elves have come to work together, although the alliance may not be easy or amicable.  
  
           Every realm imports something from another realm, every realm exports, and so the royal houses work together in something almost resembling harmony. There are still old grudges, but the diplomats do not let these color their decisions. Loki largely suspects that the diplomats are the ones most tolerant, in their realm; they only carry the weight of authority in their royal lineages. The ambassador is not the ruler, but the go-between. Loki is well aware of his role here on Midgard; he must be the bridge between Midgard and Asgard, if Midgard is to survive. Asgard, too, for after that breach and kidnapping of his sons – royal heirs, nonetheless – there can be no doubt there are murmurs in the very corners of the universe concerning the quality of her defenses.  
  
           The entire universe is watching, to see if Asgard still has the power to keep Midgard from falling to a mad tyrant with tribes upon tribes of Chitauri mercenaries in his sleeves.

* * *

  
           The months drag on, and Loki continues building his barrier, moving from sky-scraper to sky-scraper, gradually increasing the protected areas of the city. It is easier, now, with the thrum of his magic well established in so many locations, but the grounding on a material object atop the sky-scrapers still requires time and effort. Some of the mortals heeded their warnings to evacuate, but many refused to leave, while others had no _means_ to leave. They are risking their lives to stay in their homes, at their businesses, and Loki finds it admirable – except for the ones who _could_ leave, but do _not_ , not so foolish and weak, which is always a dangerous combination.  
Thor has had no success in locating Vali or Nari, but has been offering regular updates. The promised Asgardian warriors have arrived, with most of them choosing to camp out on the rooftops of amenable sky-scrapers, to be ready for battle at a moment’s notice. Such warriors are unused to the luxuries of court, and none among them is gifted magically, so Loki knows the secret of his barrier is safe. There is protection hanging over their heads but they do not know it. This, Loki supposes, makes their stalwart insistence on being closest to the entrance of the threat – the ‘front lines’, as it were – a touch more noble; in spirit, if not in actuality.  
  
           Nevertheless, eventually an attack does come; of course, on one of the unprotected areas of the city. Esmid has likely an innate talent for magic – or has learned from Innus’ training as a sorceress in Asgard, before she revealed her traitorous colors – to so studiously aim for one of the holes in Loki’s magical blanket.  
  
           The portal opens over Times Square, dropping a creature into the very center of it. What follows are Chitauri, and the Avengers assemble, along with Loki leading the Asgardian warriors. The Chitauri are easy matches for the Asgardians, so Loki leaves them to their battle-lust and joins with the Avengers, who have the large animal surrounded.  
  
           It is a wolf, but more stout than long in the body, with hair so jet black as to appear blue in the light. It stands well taller than even the Beast of the team, with long yellow fangs and a mouth that could easily swallow a man whole. Captain has his shield up against that gaping maw, with Stark shooting his stars at the creature, Widow darting along the ground shocking its flanks and Beast appears out of nowhere, charging forward to knock the creature onto its side. It howls in pain, then snaps teeth at Beast, drawing deep red furrows along his arm. He roars in rage, and starts pummeling the creature, but it manages to position itself so that it catches one of Beast’s fists, crunching down and now Loki moves, summoning his long knife in one hand and lunging forward to stab deep into the creature’s closest eye. It rears back, giving an ear-splitting sound of pain, and Loki easily releases the knife, leaving it in the wolf’s eye as he lands nimbly. It falls to his feet, and as Loki looks down at it, he considers that he may have skewered its brain.  
  
           Pitifully, the creature’s one good eye lolls up to regard him in its dying moments, and Loki sneers down at it. This is one of Esmid’s creations, tormented and tortured from birth, no doubt; if it is not all machinery inside, of course, as Innus was. He pulls the sword from its ruined eye, ignores the gush of red, and points the bloodied end in the creature’s face.  
  
           “Tell the Frost Giant to come, himself. This cowardice is unbecoming.”  
  
           With that, even as the wolf begins to whine up at him, eyes shining in what can only be an attempt to draw mercy, Loki stabs his knife deep into its brain, drowning the creature in its own blood. Its eyes overflow, leaking red as it slumps over. Only when it stops twitching does he withdraw his blade.  
  
           As he turns from the creature, Loki notices that the Avengers are gathered before him in an arc, silent; Loki cares not. He whips the blood off his blade and leaves, his cloak billowing behind him, armor tarnished with the sweat and smog of battle.

* * *

  
           Stark approaches him, afterward. Loki knows Stark was likely asked to ‘check’ on him; but Loki is fine. He is merely frustrated, full of despair and vengeance – what is the harm in taking said frustration out on Esmid’s creatures and army? Stark eyes him after he says that, but Loki ignores it. There is nothing anyone can do until Esmid reveals his plans for Vali and Nari; it is maddening in itself, to have to wait on a madman, but that is their situation.  
  
           A lack of battles in the weeks that follow, leads Loki to take out his aggressions elsewhere.

* * *

           It happens again, barely two months later. This time it is not a wolf, but a panther; fur so white as to seem light pink in certain reflections. It seeks out Loki; seems bent-set on getting to him first, despite having to claw its way through friend and foe alike. Loki allows himself to be isolated from the Avengers, and watches it come to him once all the fighters – Chitauri and Asgardian alike – in the immediate vicinity are dead. Loki is perched atop a flagpole, green cloak spread out in the wind behind him; he can hear it flapping.  
  
           The white panther circles beneath him, pink eyes locked on him. It is waiting for him to come down, Loki knows. What is curious is that it does not approach further, when it could easily engage him if only it leapt atop a few smaller buildings to get to him. Loki tilts his head; the panther does the same, its earnest stare bearing up on him.  
  
           It is likely a trick, an enchantment laid as a trap in the creature’s eyes; Loki would not put it past Esmid. As such, he leaps from the top of the pole, long knife whistling down through the air.  
  
           “As your brethren met its end, so shall you!” The panther jerks, as though surprised, but rolls out of the way even as Loki makes a small crater from the force of his landing, eyes searching through the billowing dust.  
  
           “Vali!” He shouts into the cloud, long knife at the ready. “Nari! My innocent sons – you had no right! I know you can hear me, Frost Giant! You are watching this, right now, and perhaps forcing _them_ to watch. I will not fall to your creatures! There is no challenge I will deny, if it means I can cut that much closer to beheading you!”  
  
           The panther springs, Loki hears and spins around abruptly; but it attacks from the side, not the rear, and he is sent sprawling. The long knife clatters away as the panther crouches over him, paws pressing Loki’s shoulders back into the ground with all its weight behind them. Its breath is ripe with gore and putrid in his face, pink eyes staring down at him over that feline muzzle. Loki curls his fingers around a dagger hidden in his belt, preparing to draw it. He meets the animal’s stare without fear, but with challenge; Loki will not die here, not before he has exacted his vengeance on Esmid for all that the Frost Giant has done.  
  
           The panther only stares at him, holding him there. Far from them, the battle goes on, but the shrieks of the Chitauri are lessening. Loki smirks up at the creature, crookedly.  
  
           “Is your only goal to hold me here? I assure you, the Chitauri are no great foe for my warriors or even the Avengers. They will be finished, and my companions will come – ”  
  
           The panther roars in his face, stunning Loki briefly silent with the thought of sudden death against those fangs. But the panther only moves to get off him, pink eyes always trained on him as it seats itself on its haunches. Loki takes a moment to sit up, finding himself staring at the creature; he’s beginning to frown. This panther is not behaving as the wolf did; or, perhaps it has been sent on a different mission. Loki narrows his eyes.  
  
           “For what purpose have you been sent here?” The panther is silent, only stares at him. There is something at the edge of that stare which is tugging at him. Loki had ignored it, however… there _is_ an enchantment, but perhaps not of the sort he had initially thought.  
  
           He stands; the panther tenses. Loki lifts his hands, removing and tossing aside his helmet. His view unencumbered, he stares back at those pink eyes. Beyond the shuttered enchantment of a lack of sentience, there is now something else. Loki strides forward, slowly lifting a hand. The panther spooks, slightly, but Loki holds its eyes, not allowing it to move. If Esmid took the time to _weave_ an enchantment, then there is something Esmid did not wish him to see. Why? Why would a creature like this serve any purpose other than as a weapon?  
  
           As Loki approaches, the panther bows its head; enough that Loki can press his palm to its nose, when he is close enough. Loki scans its eyes, even as he calls out his magic to creep inward, to disassemble the enchantment. There is a slight resistance when he pushes against the pink of its eyes; a half-attempted barrier, thrown together hap-hazardly, and it gives easily after barely a minute of Loki’s precise skill working upon it.  
  
           The dull pink eyes of a predatory cat fades away, to be replaced by ones that chill Loki to the bone.  
  
           They are too familiar; he _knows_ these eyes.  
  
           Loki feels his knees buckle, and the panther’s paw comes up as though in an attempt to support him. He stares, in horror, at those eyes; mostly pale green, with a chunk of blue in one. The blue matches Sigyn’s; it is a true, vibrant blue with no hint of grey. Loki could never forget that color. Vali had taken after Loki in hair and eyes, as had Nari, but for one chunk of blue in his left eye.  
  
           The same eye Loki cannot stop staring at is his son’s, in the face of a panther.  
  
           Loki grasps at the white fur and shakes his head as he falls to his knees; the panther – _no, no, Nari, it must be Nari_ – curls around him, and this close Loki can feel it shaking. The sounds of the battle around them are silent, and Loki hears a close, warning yell in his ear. He quickly leaps out from Nari's furry embrace, throwing up a magical barrier to shield his son from the shooting stars that had fired upon them. Loki hears a call to the other Avengers echo in Stark’s panicked voice – again, through the earpiece he is wearing – even as the stars rebound, and Loki puts a hand behind him, to ensure Nari is still there. He feels Nari bow his head; hiding his huge, feline body behind Loki as though a kitten cowering in fear. Stark is in view, now, flying towards them in his armor; palms raised for another shot. Loki shouts desperately to him from behind the barrier. He need not do so, as Stark can hear him perfectly well over the dead silence of the earpiece-communicator, but Loki’s own distress leaks into his voice despite himself.  
  
           “Do _not_! This is one of my _sons_!” There is a tense moment of obvious shock, then Stark’s faceplate snaps up; he looks both annoyed and incredulous.  
  
           “The hell – are you _serious_? That thing is…“ Stark trails off, no doubt as he registers the white panther shivering behind Loki’s hand on its head, his gaze slowly drawing back to Loki’s frenzied eyes. The magical barrier is still up, and the strength of it is draining him, but Loki will _not_ have what is left of Nari harmed while he still draws breath. Stark inhales, quickly, and Loki sees the realization dawn.  
  
           “Oh, _shit_. You’re sure?” Loki offers a curt nod, and hears a beep in his ear; suddenly, the silence in his earpiece is gone and all the other Avengers are audible again. Loki cuts Stark short from speaking with a sharp look, before Stark can share this information. Stark stares at him, but after a moment there is another beep, and the sounds of the others are gone; they are speaking privately, again. Stark gazes at him, expectantly.  
  
           “Allow me to deal with this.” Loki glances back at his son. Before Stark can respond, he opens a dimensional swirl of magic, spiriting them away to his room in the Tower. No one will think to look for him there, and Loki will be finished by the time the Avengers return.  
  
           He stares up at Nari, at those damning eyes, and finds a question on his lips.  
  
           “Was your brother – ?” Nari bows his head; both agreement and sadness. Loki feels the inside of his chest shatter under some great pressure. He does not allow it to show, merely closes his eyes in unending regret, and takes a slow breath as his fingers curl reflexively into Nari’s white fur. But this is not the time for grief.  
  
           Loki attempts to break the enchantment, but it is too well woven into his son’s being. Nari is not only a panther in appearance, now, but some parts of his mind have been lost. Loki hopes they can be regained, but cannot know if Esmid has also set a trap in Nari’s new, strange form; some secret spell that will activate if given the right trigger. Loki does not wish any more suffering upon his family; and that is the only thing that will happen, if Nari is triggered and goes on a beastly rampage in the Tower.  
  
           Reconsidering, Loki sends a message to Hela, requesting that she relocate Nari to her palace in Nilfheim. There, at least, he will be safe. Nilfheim has a far greater barrier than Asgard’s; the line between life and death. To enter Nilfheim while alive is to make your soul forfeit; you shall never enter Valhalla or Freya’s Hall. That alone is enough to dissuade many, but for those who don’t, there are other barriers. Even Loki does not know them all, as he has never visited Nilfheim. But he knows some part of Hela resides there; why else would she so often be absent, even when she might be standing physically beside him?  
  
           Hela appears only a moment later; she is dwarfed by the size of the great white panther, but her bearing far outweighs his. Nari bows his head in submission, and Hela actually smiles; gently, almost. She raises a hand, to rest upon Nari’s head.  
  
           “Now you see me, Brother.” She murmurs the title to Nari, and then turns to fix Loki with an unreadable look. “Vali awaits us. I shall look after both.” That is all the confirmation Loki needs of his guilt, and he feels his knees buckle as he sinks to the floor. Hela watches this, but something in her eyes indescribably softens; just barely, so subtle Loki almost misses it. He looks at her, pleadingly.  
  
           “I am not your father right now.” Hela tilts her head, and smiles that mysterious, nearly mischievous smile that makes so many others uncomfortable.  
  
           “You are always my father.” It is a calm statement. She continues.  
  
           “Vali and Nari’s fates were decided long before you or Mother were born. There is no sadness in this, only what must _be_.” She walks over to Loki; he is shorter than her, kneeling as he is. She presses a kiss to his brow.  
  
           “They shall be safe, and joyously reunited. Worry not, Father.”  
  
           With a swirl of grey magic, his children are swept away. Loki slumps backwards into a slouched seat, from where he had been kneeling; now staring down at his knees against the carpet, hands splayed lifelessly over them.  
  
           The door opens some time later. Loki closes his eyes; he does not need to look up to know it’s Stark. The thrum of power from the swirling star in Stark’s chest is a beacon for any, be they sighted or attuned to energy wavelengths. Loki is both.  
  
           “Vali was the wolf.” It is a dead voice, and the sharp intake of breath from Stark is expected. What is _not_ expected, is how the door swishes shut and Stark’s footfalls approach. Loki hears Stark sit beside him, tastes the hesitation in the air, and then feels the hand rest on his shoulder. Loki finds himself chuckling, humorlessly.  
  
           “I killed my own son.” The words are ash in his mouth; Stark’s hand tightens on his shoulder.  
  
           “You couldn’t have known.”  
  
           “I _should_ have known!” It is an abrupt explosion as Loki flies out his hand to shove Stark away with his arm. Errant, emotionally charged magic jets out of it and Stark is thrown against the wall with a grunt of pain. Loki turns, wild-eyed, sees Stark clutching the star in his chest, grimacing in agony – and flees.

* * *

  
           Loki returns a few hours later, when the endless calls Stark had been making to his earpiece (still in place, from the battle) grow too irritating and ridiculous. He appears in Stark’s workshop without preamble, tossing the cursed device against the back of Stark’s stupid head and disappears to his room.  
  
           Insufferable mortal fool.

* * *

           There are no more attacks led by giant beasts; Loki thinks, bitterly, that it was a great boon that he had had no more children. Nari is alive, but he cannot rule Asgard as a panther. Hela cannot rule both realms. Either Loki must produce a new heir or Thor must wed and produce his own. Else, the line of the Allfather will someday come to an untimely end.  
  
           The Midgardian weeks and months drag by; Asgard’s citizens are growing restless, with the lack of news of Esmid. Loki cannot answer Thor’s inquiries, because there has been no _sign_. The trepidation has been building since the last attack, led by Nari; and before that, since the Invasion of New York led by the machine Innus. Loki, ever dutifully, works on expanding and strengthening his barrier, and in other moments comes to know these mortal ‘Avengers.’  
  
           None better than Stark, however.  
  
           After Nari was sent with Hela, Stark has seemed to make it a habit to invite Loki down to his workshop. Oddly, in all this time, Loki’s room has not been finished with its remodeling (possibly because it is an excellent place for Loki to vent his frustrations, with no one the wiser except the workers and Stark himself), and so he has remained sleeping on Stark’s penthouse couch. If Stark has noticed Loki’s chronic, destructive tendencies, he has made no mention of it, and Loki is inclined to believe Stark actually enjoys having someone around. Perhaps all this talk of Loki ‘not being alone’ is a mere cover for Stark’s own sense of isolation.  
  
           The irony; Loki is the only prince of Asgard on Midgard, while Tony is a mortal amongst mortals. There are thousands more like him, whereas there is no one quite like Loki on Midgard. There are other Asgardians, but none of the royal line, and none who would ascend to the throne, should Thor abdicate or be killed in battle. …No, perhaps he is not quite being fair, Loki admits to himself: perhaps Stark is a prince among _mortals_ , and this is why he is alone.  
  
           (Stark certainly _acts_ enough like an entitled, spoiled prince, to fit the role. And Loki has grown up with Thor – he knows, _intimately_ , what that looks like.)  
  
           Regardless, they have grown together as tolerable ‘friends’ – as Stark puts it – in that Stark will putter away in his workshop, and Loki will study his magic book, linked to the entire Asgardian library. Their company is passed mostly in silence, with them each concentrating on their own disciplines. Other than the occasional explosion, it is rather peaceful in Tony’s workshop. Loki will assert that he continues to come down here only because there are no cameras in the workshop; barring, of course, the ones the robots sport, for record-keeping purposes of failed and successful experiments with new technology.  
  
           Really, Tony’s presence has very little to do with it.

* * *

           As the anniversary of a year from the day New York was invaded approaches, harmless jests begin flying between the Avengers; Loki hears some of them, but is not entirely sure of the point. It is often romantic nonsense, instigated by Hawk (teasing) or Captain (light-heartedly), to which Widow rolls her eyes and Beast hides a smile behind his hand. Tony, oddly enough, grows red every time it’s brought up. Perhaps Loki has been on Midgard too long, but he is beginning to enjoy these mortals. There is something endlessly entertaining about flustering Tony such that he is rendered speechless, looking like a fish.  
  
           If Widow and Beast do not participate in the mischief, Loki at least begins to allow himself to have a bit of fun playing up to Hawk and Captain’s poking comments. They might mention how Tony and Loki stay down in the workshop for hours together, and what they might be doing. Loki plays along with a straight face and states that, of course, they are having sex.  
This makes Tony choke on his drink from where he is sitting beside Loki, and Loki pats him on the back; leaning in, perhaps closer than necessary, feigning concern.  
  
           “Dear, are you quite all right?” Tony looks up at him, face red and again rendered hilariously speechless, but Loki merely gives him a sweet smile of innocent, ‘earnest’ inquiry. If possible, Tony goes even redder, and abruptly stands, marching out of the room. Loki stares after him as he sits back, amused. Hawk is crowing with laughter, and Captain looks as though he is trying very hard not to do the same. Beast is only shaking his head and Widow is watching Loki with an unreadable stare.  
  
           Situations like this happen a few more times, before, one early morning, Widow pulls him aside. They go out into the city, to a café; both in disguise, so as not to draw media attention more than necessary. Without preamble, Widow reveals the purpose of their outing once they both are seated across a small, round table with two cups of tea.  
  
           “Tony’s in love with you.” Loki stares at her; it had been a blunt statement, delivered with an even tone. He cannot think of a response to that, and his mind decides his reply for him.  
  
           “Does he, now?” It sounds almost callously detached, and Widow’s eyes narrow at him. She sits back in her seat, crosses her arms over her chest.  
  
           “Don’t play with him. He puts up a good front but I’ve read his file. If you don’t love him, don’t play with him like that. Clint and Steve see it, too, but they tease him to try and get him to admit it. He won’t. Especially with you twisting the knife like you’ve been doing, he _won’t_. He thinks it’s all a game to you. Either prove him wrong or cut it out.”  
  
           Loki only stares at her. Widow doesn’t blink, simply holds his stare.  
  
           She is _serious_.  
  
           Loki opens his mouth to respond; they wait, but nothing comes out; at least, not immediately. Then, after a moment to recover himself, his voice coming out tighter than Loki had anticipated –  
  
           “Has he told you all this?” Widow’s face softens, just a little. She moves to stand up, and looks down to the table as she leaves some cash there to pay for their tea. Her voice is deceptively dismissive.  
  
           “No, I just see it. It’s my job to observe people.” With that, she leaves Loki there. He stares at the half-cup of tea he has left, watches the steam slowly dissipate as it grows cold. The sun outside has long set when he finally gets up, ushered outside by the staff of the café, which is closing.  
  
           Loki wanders the New York streets all night until the sky begins to lighten with the sunrise – he could not go back to the Tower. Widow likely made an excuse for him.  
Loki has not sought out a bedmate since Sigyn died, over a hundred years ago. Not for a lack of interest; or, at least, not for a lack of Asgardian women wishing to make themselves mothers to his royal heirs. Loki had vowed to never marry again, but in the current political climate and with Vali dead and Nari now unsuited –  
  
           No. Loki shakes his head away from that. No, he need not cave to political pressure in order to produce another suitable heir. Thor will simply have to swallow his misgivings, be wed, and produce his own heir. Loki has done his part. Norns above, he has fulfilled his duty enough; two sons, both lost, and a daughter who cannot take the Asgardian throne. Thor can shoulder some responsibility for the continuation of the line, too.  
  
           … Tony loves him.  
  
           It is a strange thought; Loki reflects on what he knows about him, what he has seen, what he has heard.  
  
           Tony is alone; he has no family outside of the Avengers.  
  
           Tony is at turns brilliant and aggravating, depending on which he wants to be, in that moment.  
  
           Tony is arrogant but also gregarious.  
  
           Tony is stupid but smart.  
  
           Tony is…  
  
           Tony is a good friend; as an equal friend, Loki cannot do this to him.  
  
           Loki opens his eyes; he is on a sky scraper across from the Tower.  
  
           There is some commotion going on atop it; he watches, perfectly able to see from here (whereas a mortal might only see blurred figures, at this distance).  
  
           It looks as though Tony is pacing in the penthouse, with all the lights up, and Captain and the others are attempting to calm him. Tony gestures violently in the air, and then strides off towards the balcony. A panel in the wall opens and his suit flies out to assemble around him; Captain approaches Tony and holds the crook of his elbow. There are tense words, before Tony pulls his arm out and takes off into the sky. Loki watches him disappear straight up into the atmosphere, then looks back at the penthouse. The other Avengers seem upset; except for Widow, who is leaning on the wall beside the door. One by one, they file out.  
  
           Loki resumes gazing up at the spot through which Tony vanished, and subtly flares his magic. After a few minutes, Tony rockets into his line of sight, heading straight for him at breakneck speed; likely having had his sensors up to full power, to try to find some sign of Loki’s magic in order to track him down.  
  
           Tony loves him; was searching for him, had been worried for him. Loki can only stare impassively at Tony’s faceplate for the moment before it flips up, unleashing both relief and neurotic rambling.  
  
           “ _There_ you are! Where the hell have you been? Nat said she took you out to breakfast and she said you had a few things to think about, but that was _yesterday_ and we were all worried that maybe Esmid had done a sneak attack and abducted you or something – ”  
  
           The stream of ridiculousness is stemmed by Loki putting the tips of his fingers to Tony’s lips. Loki holds himself back, only examines Tony’s eyes.  
  
           “I apologize.” It’s very quiet, almost inaudible, and it’s out-of-character enough that Tony’s brows furrow. Without thinking, Tony grabs Loki’s hand and pulls it away from his face. Instead of listening to what Tony says next,  
           Loki finds himself focusing on the feel of their hands together. He has allowed no one to touch him, since Sigyn died.  
  
           Thor does not count; he always takes, and he is king.  
  
           Other Asgardians in the heat of battle do not count; that is business.  
  
           Tony.  
  
           … Does Tony count?  
  
           Loki drags his gaze back up to Tony’s face; whatever Tony was saying, it’s stopped short, and he looks almost scared.  
  
           “Hey – Hey, are you all right? What’s wrong?” Loki can’t do anything but stare. He doesn’t know what to do with this. Tony is not Sigyn, they have not been friends since childhood, she has not yet been avenged, Loki’s children by her have been all but obliterated, and Loki is not suited for a mortal lover. He has already lost one; he cannot lose another. Loki closes his eyes, and shakes his head, minutely.  
  
           “No. I am broken. You should not love me.” There is a long, long pause after that statement, but then Tony’s hand – the one not holding Loki’s – comes to rest on his shoulder. His voice is trying to be strong, but it’s soundly shaken.  
  
           “Yeah, well – too late, now. So what’s it gonna be, champ? Yes or no? Fill it or forget it?” Loki lets out a breathless huff of a laugh at the silly statement, the sheer confidence of Tony taking such a closely-held secret and meeting it straight on when it is uttered in front of him. Loki slivers his eyes open, feeling the corners of his mouth quirk up in a hopeless smile.  
  
           “You would regret it.” One of Tony’s eyebrows lofts, and he leans in with a growing grin.  
  
           “I dunno, I’ve done a lot of things and never regretted them.” Loki nearly scoffs, at that, and leans away, just to be contrary.  
  
           “One of your more glaring character flaws, I’m sure.” Tony croons at him, bright brown eyes still growing closer.  
  
           “My assets outnumber those.” Loki tilts his head, giving a razor-sharp smile.  
  
           “Arguable.” Stark snorts at him, tilting his head in tandem, eyes narrowing.  
  
           “Shut up and kiss me, you teasing bastard.” Loki hums, at that, but obliges – with one last jab.  
  
           “Well, since you asked _so_ nicely…”

* * *

  
           That is the beginning; over the months that stretch on, their relationship advances, Tony and Loki have a lot of sex and a lot of arguments, Hawk and Captain tease them, and Widow and Beast look on with something almost like pride. There is still no news of Esmid, and Loki almost forgets they are in the middle of a war.  
  
           Exactly three years after the Invasion of New York – roughly two years after Widow had that conversation with Loki in a café – Asgard is invaded by a contingent of Dark Elves under the leadership of the sorcerer Malekith.  
  
           Thor is killed by a Kursed warrior; Loki must return home and accept the crown.  
  
           He tries to take Tony with him, but Tony refuses, saying he’s got a duty to protect Earth. Loki has his misgivings; especially since Esmid has said he will _destroy_ Midgard. All of Esmid’s threats and habits come back to Loki’s mind, not the least of them being how he kidnapped Vali and Nari to ensure Loki’s attention would not stray from him.  
  
           What if he tries to do the same with Tony?  
  
           Loki’s fears are realized; the day after he leaves, Esmid’s forces arrive en masse in New York City. It is as though Esmid was waiting for him to leave, and when Loki returns with reinforcements there is nothing left of the sky scrapers and buildings but rubble floating in the rivers and strewn in the streets. There is a heavy layer of dust over the corpses – human, Asgardian and Chitauri alike – and it is hard to breathe over the smell and smoke.  
  
           Beast survived, he hears, but has not been seen.  
  
           Captain approaches him, a mission clear in his eyes, saying they need to find Tony. Captain tells him that Esmid just grabbed Tony by the throat, then plastered a disc onto his helmet that sucked all the electricity out of the suit – making it into nothing but a heavy metal casket – and started to ascend through the air to his ship. Captain says that there was a barrier around him, even though everyone did everything they could to stop him. Hawk’s arrows and Captain’s shield bounced off, Widow’s attempted ambush from actually atop Esmid’s ship had no effect, and Beast was massed by Chitauri pawns so he could not get there in time.  
  
           That was when Widow died, Captain says with a soldier’s grief in his face. She attacked Esmid, tried to throw off his concentration so the magic barrier would fall. Unexpectedly, Esmid dropped the barriers for a split second – long enough to turn around and engage. Still with one hand holding Tony’s armored throat, he threw something straight at her. She twisted and he missed as she dodged, but then she suddenly dropped like a stone out of the sky.  
  
           Captain ran and caught her, but by then it was already too late; her face and skin were frozen blue, ice on her lips and snow crystals caking her hair, nose and eyelashes. She was as cold as an icicle, barely more than a rag doll, her eyes unseeing.  
  
           So passed the Black Widow: trying to save one of her own.  
  
           The Hawk went berserk after that, Captain said – just shot explosive arrow after explosive arrow at Esmid’s ship as it swallowed Esmid and Tony up, whole. Once they were gone, and against Captain’s orders, he then jumped into the fray of remaining Chitauri and ferociously fist-fought through them, as though that would change anything. He advanced too fast and too far for Captain and Beast to be able to assist, and was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of Chitauri; torn, limb from limb, by the time they reached the spot where they had last seen him.  
  
           The Avengers lie in ruins, New York City is no more, and… _Tony_.  
  
           Tony is now Esmid’s _hostage_ ; and Loki has learned, in these past two years as Tony’s lover, just _what_ had happened in Afghanistan, and why Tony is a man who is half-iron.  
  
           Loki leaves what warriors he can to assist on Midgard, and turns to summon for Heimdall to open the Bifrost. Asgard has nearly fallen; if not from the damage of Malekith’s attack, then from the political blow the complete annihilation of New York would reap.


	3. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This life has given Loki great gifts; he is King Thor’s chief advisor, has three strong children and is honored and accepted in Asgard – because only Frigga knows of his magical abilities. But the banished sorceress Innus murdered his wife, and after over a hundred years of Loki searching for vengeance, she reappears. Innus is heading a Chitauri invasion on a Midgardian city, and Asgard rushes to its aid. During the battle, Loki meets a man with a heart of iron who fights as one of Midgard’s own Avenging Warriors. Later, after Innus has been captured, an admirer makes himself known, turning Loki’s hard-earned life into nothing but memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N (12:30 AM PST on day of post): LAST PART HERE WE GO. Anyway I just wanted to ramble a little. I've never been part of the Bang and managed to join on August 1st, and wrote 15K of this guy by August 28th - whoo! Of course, the remaining 17K would come over the next three months... And I didn't write anything in September because I was really stressed over life things. Hahaha. I think I was at 22K with two weeks to go, then wrote about 6K last week, and ended up going over my estimate by about 2K... and I have to be up in two hours to start a multi-hour trek on public transit to a filmshoot I'm in... 
> 
> BUT AT LEAST THIS IS DONE. BE KIND TO ME, MY LOVELIES.
> 
> Oh! Also, I know this is listed as the 2nd part in a series, but it can be read as a stand-alone or out-of-order. If you're already at this chapter you either read the first installment or you didn't - can't change it now! Bahaha~ But really, either way is fine. Two different stories from completely different perspectives, but people who read one will notice hints in the other if/when they read the other, and vice versa. :3 Thank you for reading this, at any rate, and I hope to hear from you in the comments section!
> 
> I LOVE TO DIALOGUE ABOUT STORIES! TOTALLY HIT ME UP, DARLINGS! :D HAPPY FROSTIRON BANG 2015!!!

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          Growing accustomed to a universe which shares so many similarities with his own is hard for Loki. Hela offers him glimpses into the past, so he might better understand what his self of this era has gone through. It is disconcerting, to say the least. Here, he had outed himself as a sorcerer from early on; Frigga had been accepting, but she was only one person amidst a tide of ridicule. Loki knew now that his other life had been better – he and Thor had mended their differences in order to work together. Here, there was a bitterness steeped in every past action that made Loki want to cringe.

            And yet, none of this prepared him for the turn his life took when he accompanied Thor on his mission of warmongering, after the canceled coronation. It had never happened in Loki's other life, so for it to happen now made it all the more horrible.

            _Had_ he been a Frost Giant; his other self, his _true_ self? Had Odin never told him, like he had, here? It made the bile rise in Loki's throat, made him a little mad, made him forget why he was here. Loki let go at the Bifrost, let himself drift, let himself obsess over if that was what Esmid had meant, when he said he and Loki were alike.

            In the void, Hela offered to reach out to him, but he turned away from her. She let him go.

            Loki had been living this other life for some duration of time. Hela had taken the physical form of a young child, but age was meaningless to her anyway. She likely did it for her own twisted sense of amusement; not that Loki would fault her for that. He mused over this, as he drifted. He could not approach Tony before the right time; but when that was, he would never know. He did not know what year it was on Midgard compared to Asgard, as time passed far too differently. There were ways to find out, but given the temperamental nature of time travel spells, Loki was hesitant to inadvertently influence anything that should not be influenced.

            So, he left Midgard alone; Earth, he recalled, as Tony had insisted so many times.

            In the horrible exhilaration of discovering his true heritage for the first time in two lifetimes, Loki had forgotten Tony on Midgard. In his madness, Loki suddenly craved him; his voice, his face, his company. Loki wanted a Tony that had not been taken from him by Esmid’s cold hand – one he could defend from such a fate. One he could save. For, Frost Giant or no, whether that had also been a hidden lie of his existence back home, Tony…

            Tony would always love him. Wouldn’t he?

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            The way Loki finds his way back to Midgard is on the opposite side of the Avenging Warriors. It galls him to be taking Innus’ place in this universe, but he supposes it is worth it. A familiar song blasts out of the hovering behemoth of metal, and those familiar shooting stars come out of nowhere in Germany, knocking him to the ground. They sear his chestplate even as they make it ache, and Loki can do nothing but force himself back to his feet, stare at the mechanical battle suit encasing Tony and acquiesce.

            Loki can’t raise a hand against him. It hurts too much to see him alive – to see him, and know Tony remembers nothing. No one else has, except for Hela, but still Loki had hoped some shred of what they had had remained. Loki walks quietly into their hold, allows himself to be ‘taken prisoner’. He knows his mission, and the Wolf watches from deep in the cosmos, tugging on the strings of his mind. The Wolf doesn’t need to make Loki sit and watch Thor and Tony’s scuffle in the forest; the fractured part of him easily laughs at the ridiculousness of it all.

            Once Tony is out of sight, Loki is back to all business and he notices Tony doesn’t visit him in the cage meant for the beast. He has plenty of visitors; the beast’s keeper knew well enough to avoid him, from that single glance in the hallway, but the small deadly assassin with hair as shockingly red as any from Muspelheim (Widow, but she doesn’t know him anymore) and the tall, demanding man in the long black coat (Director, who is now only suspicious of him) just can’t stay away.

            Loki plays them all; engineers his escape, and heads to New York to set up his portal. He doesn’t enter Tony’s penthouse, doesn’t allow himself to dwell; this is what he must do, here, he has no choice, not with the Wolf holding sway over his mind. Perhaps it was Loki’s lingering attachment to Tony that made the Wolf choose Stark Tower as the epicenter of the portal; Loki will never know how deeply the Wolf could scratch into his psyche.

Perhaps that is why the Wolf had had Loki throw Tony through the same window through which Loki had first observed sky scrapers.

            But the invasion fails, and Loki feels sweet relief beyond the excruciating pain of the Beast beating him into the hard marble floor of Tony’s penthouse. He lies there, unable to move as his bones knit themselves back together. He listens to the sounds of battle outside; Loki can hear everyone’s comments over the communication devices linked back to Stark Tower’s mainframe; Jarvis’ security protocols have the same passwords as in his memories. Loki closes his eyes as Tony cuts off, feeling his heart in his throat; is this how it ends?

            There is an explosion of sound as the battle suit falls out of the closing portal – he knows by an exclamation from Hawk – and there is a tense silence before then Loki hears Tony’s voice. He doesn’t even hear the words, just knows it’s him, and that’s enough.

            They return to the penthouse just as Loki begins to move, to push himself up, and he has to muster a smile up at them, however self-depreciating. He flicks a look towards Tony, just happy they’re both still alive; they’re _all_ still alive.

            Thor takes him back to Asgard and Loki is imprisoned, despite Thor’s impassioned pleas (in private) that Loki had not been himself, during the invasion. That much is true, but anything of the sort out of his own mouth will only convince the Odin of this universe that he has Thor in thrall. Loki is deeply resentful and saddened by the deteriorated relationship with the Allfather, but – just as everything else in this version of events – it cannot be changed, now. So Loki plays his part with bravado and slippery daggers of words, and sits and rots in a jail cell while Frigga is murdered by Malekith and his Kursed bodyguard. (Frigga instead of Thor, in this lifetime.)

            Loki fakes his own death, and becomes king of Asgard. Now in a position of power, he allows Thor the choice to become king. By some odd twist of fate, his brother has become infatuated with a mortal woman, in this life. Loki cannot begrudge him that, and so he allows Thor his choice, and lets Thor go back to her, all the while silently impressing Loki with his humility. _His_ Thor had only gained humbleness after becoming king. It is somewhat reassuring to know that will always be a lesson Thor learns.

            Loki remembers Tony, but dare not show his face again on Midgard, lest he be recognized. The years pass agonizingly slow; this time he keeps track. Barely two years after the invasion, Loki leaves a copy to act as Odin in his place. He hates to say it, but with Frigga dead it is easier to play Odin – she would have found him out with a single glance.

            He goes to Malibu, honing in on the familiar hum of power from the star – the arc reactor, he knows the correct terminology after two years living with Tony’s technological babbling – embedded in Tony’s chest. Loki lands on a street; invisible, of course. It is nearly deserted. There might have been a glimmer of light from the teleportation, for Tony squints in his direction. Loki can’t help but hold his breath, but Tony looks away again, giving no sign of having seen anything after all.

            The next time they run into each other, it is Tony who approaches Loki while he is reading a book in a coffee shop. They exchange what passes for pleasantries, for them, and Loki finds himself enjoying it. There are nuanced differences; this Tony does not treat him as a lover, but the lingering looks are still there and give Loki hope that perhaps not all has changed, even when so much already has. Tony leaves, allowing Loki to mull over his thoughts in private. (He exits the café at once, of course, lest Tony try to pin down his energy signature with a scan from Jarvis.)

            The tryst is a mistake; is Loki giving into temptation. Truly, he had not gone to the club to seek out Tony. Less truly, Loki _had_ known it was Tony he was seducing; of course he had. Still, he had done it. He had relished it, had lost himself in it, had pounded out a hundred and more years of frustration in one night. In the morning, Loki realized with dread how easy it had been; how meaningless. Tony had been his for a night, but that would never be enough.

            Never again. A ‘one-time thing’, as Tony had said, no matter how his eyes had flickered with conflict as they shook hands. It was and is not in Loki’s nature to reveal all; he smothered the temptation with ease, and disappeared, intending never to contact Tony again. But resolve is a hard thing to come by; after barely over a year of trying to figure out the Wolf’s agenda, Loki is greeted by… another Loki. He knows instantly that this is an imposter, but has no means to prove it. As such, Loki greets him back as this universe’s Odin would; with a heavy amount of suspicion. It is easy to convey, as that is what Loki _actually_ feels towards him.

           The fake calls for a conference, with delegates from each realm, and Loki grudgingly grants him that. It _is_ a good idea, and it is an excuse to extend an invitation to Midgard, as well. Loki knows Tony will not pass up such a curiosity-tempting opportunity, as the only mortal to have set foot on Asgard in all its long history is Jane Foster.

           Perhaps with Tony here, Loki can protect him this time.

           Perhaps they must not always be doomed.


End file.
